SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 


"  'Anil   it  came  t<>  me  that  w<-  were  all   like  that  -lik«>  little   flames  casting 
shadows  in  some  sivntcr  li}-rl)t.     And   thnt  our  passions  \VITC  also  like  little 
flames    that    cast    shadows     of    sorrow   .   .   .   rejiret  .   .   .   despair   .   .   .   weari 
ness.   .   .   .'  "•     I'nijc    _'7 


SHADOWS   OF 
FLAMES 


A  Novel 


BY 


AMELIE  RIVES 

(PRINCESS  TROUBETZKOY) 
Author  of  "The  Quick  or  the  Dead,"  "World's- End,"  etc. 


WITH  FRONTISPIECE  IN  COLOR  BY 
ALFRED  JAMES  DEWEY 


NEW  YORK 

FREDERICK  A.  STOKES  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


Copyright,  19H,  1915,  by 

AMELIE  TROUBETZKOY 


All  right*  reterved,  including  thiit  of  translation 
into  foreign  languages. 


September,  1915 


TO 

MY  FRIEND 

VIOLA  ROSEBORO 

WITH  MUCH  LOVE 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 


SOPHY  smiled  at  her  image  in  the  mirror,  and  her  grey  eyes 
smiled  back  at  her.  The  shadows  under  them — warm, 
golden  stains  like  those  on  a  bruised  magnolia  leaf — gave 
them  a  mysterious,  impassioned  look.  She  felt  that  she 
was  going  to  have  a  happy  evening. 

In  those  days,  in  the  early  '90s,  electric  light  was  not 
much  used  in  the  houses  in  Regent's  Park.  Candles  in 
brass  sconces  lighted  her  dressing-table.  They  brought 
out  flickering  shimmers  from  her  gown  of  white  brocade. 
Sleeves  were  full  that  year.  The  transparent  masses  of 
azalea  pink,  drooping  on  either  side  of  her  slender  body, 
made  it  look  slenderer.  These  sleeves  were  like  huge  or 
chids,  and  from  them  her  arms  drooped  stamenlike  in  the 
soft,  gold  wash  from  the  candles. 

Matilda,  her  little  Kentish  maid,  could  not  keep  her 
eyes  away  from  her.  As  she  hooked  the  long,  tightly 
wound  sash  of  azalea  pink  she  kept  peering  at  her  lady's 
image  in  the  glass.  There,  Sophy's  eyes  met  hers.  She 
smiled  again — at  Tilda  this  time. 

"Will  you  wear  anything  on  your  hair,  m'm?"  asked 
the  girl,  smiling  shyly  in  return. 

Sophy  considered,  looking  at  the  curve  of  her  head  from 
different  angles  in  a  little  hand-glass. 

"No,"  she  said,  at  last;  "just  the  pearls  to-night." 

Her  hair,  dark  and  richly  shaded  like  a  breadth  of 
veined  mahogany,  was  drawn  loosely  back  into  a  big,  shin 
ing  knot  low  on  her  neck.  Her  eyebrows  were  darker  than 
her  hair,  long,  slender,  and  straight.  When  she  laughed 
or  smiled  her  eyes  too  grew  long  and  slender. 

She  glanced  at  the  pearls  that  the  girl  was  now  clasping 
about  her  throat.  They  had  been  a  wedding-gift  from 
her  brother-in-law,  Lord  Wychcote.  Poor  Gerald!  She 
was  fond  of  him.  He  was  the  only  one  of  the  family 

1 


2  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

t 

who  had  been  really  nice  to  her.  Yes,  they  were  fond  of 
each  other.  She  touched  the  cold,  heavy  pearls  and 
thought  pityingly  of  his  dark  eyes  so  often  full  of  pain. 
Then  she  thought  of  how  Cecil  sometimes  spoke  brutally 
to  him,  and  she  shivered. 

"A  goose  on  your  grave,  m'm?"  said  Tilda.  "Let  me 
fetch  a  scarf. ' ' 

She  brought  a  scarf  of  old  lace,  delicate  as  the  skeleton 
of  an  elm-leaf  left  by  caterpillars,  and  threw  it  over 
Sophy's  shoulders.  Then  handed  her  her  fan,  gloves,  and 
handkerchief,  and  taking  the  white  evening-cloak  on  her 
arm,  waited  for  her  mistress  to  leave  the  room. 

Sophy  gave  a  last  look  over  her  shoulder  as  she  turned 
from  the  mirror.  Yes,  she  liked  the  dark  curve  of  her  head 
unbroken  by  any  ornament — besides,  she  did  not  wish  to 
wear  anything  that  Cecil  had  given  her,  to-night.  The 
pink-and-white  gown  was  three  years  old — had  been  part 
of  her  trousseau.  She  had  had  it  remodelled  in  the  house 
by  a  clever  little  seamstress. 

She  went  slowly  down  the  stairway,  through  the  square 
white  hall.  The  Georgian  house  was  simple  and  cheerful. 
Sophy  especially  liked  the  Sheraton  furniture  and  white 
panelling,  because  they  reminded  her  of  her  Virginia  home 
"  Sweet- Waters. "  How  happy  she  could  have  been  in  a 
house  like  this,  if  only.  .  .  .  Her  eyes  darkened.  She 
stood  still  for  a  moment  in  the  middle  of  the  stairway,  and 
Tilda  halted  patiently  behind  her.  Then,  before  the  girl 
could  ask  if  anything  were  needed,  she  went  on  again  with 
her  swift,  light  step,  and  passed  across  the  hall  into  the 
drawing-room. 

As  she  had  expected,  her  husband  was  there  already. 
He  was  seated  at  one  end  of  a  deep,  chintz-covered  sofa 
holding  a  book  close  to  his  bent  face  and  the  light  of  a 
lamp  that  stood  on  a  little  table  near-by.  His  great  figure 
seemed  hunched  and  crouched  together.  Sophy  hated  these 
crouching  attitudes  of  his.  They  made  her  feel  that  he 
was  preparing  to  spring  on  something — to  worry  it.  And 
she  noticed  how  dull  his  thick,  fair  hair  looked  in  the  lamp 
light — "staring"  like  the  coat  of  a  horse  out  of  condition. 
She  knew  that  he  had  not  been  well  for  the  last  two 
years,  but  his  illness  puzzled  her — with  its  violent  inter 
ruptions  of  alternate  rage  and  high  spirits,  its  long 
stretches  of  indifferent  apathy. 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  3 

She  did  not  go  up  to  him,  but  stood  in  the  middle  of 
the  room  as  she  had  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  stairway, 
watching  him.  Was  he  going  to  be  "nice,"  and  let  her 
enjoy  her  rare  outing?  Or  was  he  going  to  be  .  .  .? 
There  were  several  things  that  Cecil  Chesney  could  be 
which  made  his  wife  shiver  again  and  draw  her  underlip 
between  her  teeth. 

He  was  so  absorbed  in  his  book  that  he  did  not  know 
she  stood  there  watching  him,  studying  him.  His  face 
had  a  curious  expression.  It  seemed  to  her  that  it  looked 
slightly  swollen.  His  lips  hung  apart.  Every  now  and 
then  he  moistened  them  slowly  with  his  tongue.  It  was  so 
like  a  cat  licking  its  chops  that  Sophy  shivered  again.  She 
was  not  exactly  afraid  of  him  but  she  felt  dread. 

Then  she  said  in  her  warm,  clear  contralto : 

"I'm  ready,  Cecil." 

He  did  not  start,  but  his  eyelids  drew  together  and  his 
lips  closed.  He  laid  one  hand  flat  upon  the  open  pages  of 
the  book  and  sat  gazing  at  her  between  his  drawn-up  lids. 
Then  his  face  loosened;  he  hunched  his  shoulders  still 
more,  giving  a  short,  harsh  laugh. 

"By  God!"  he  said.    "You  are  a  beauty!" 

Sophy  went  white.  She  stood  still,  moving  one  slight 
foot  nervously  on  the  polished  floor.  Chesney  sat  looking 
at  her.  He  smiled  and  his  upper  lip  curled  in  the  middle 
and  at  the  corners. 

"Come  here,"  he  said. 

She  dropped  her  chin  slightly  and  looked  steadily  back 
at  him  from  under  her  straight  brows.  Her  dilated  pupils 
made  her  eyes  seem  black. 

' '  What  for  ? ' '  she  said,  in  a  low  voice. 

"  I  '11  show  you  when  you  come. ' ' 

"We'll  be  late,  Cecil.  It  takes  over  half  an  hour  from 
here  to  the  Arundels'." 

The  smile  left  his  lips. 

"Come  here  to  me,"  he  said  slowly.  His  voice  had  no 
expression  in  it;  he  spoke  as  an  automaton  might  have 
spoken,  but  Sophy  took  a  few  reluctant  steps  in  his  direc 
tion.  Then  she  stopped  again  and  said : 

"  I  do  so  hate  to  be  late !    Won 't  you  start  now  ? ' ' 

His  eyes  opened  wide,  and  he  threw  a  look  at  her  like 
a  missile.  It  was  what  Sophy  knew  as  his  "red  look." 
She  went  swiftly  up  to  him. 


4  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

"There,"  she  said;  "show  me  what  you  want  to,  and 
then  we'll  go." 

But  his  eyelids  had  drawn  together  again,  and  he  looked 
up  at  her  with  his  mocking  smile.  Yes;  his  face  was 
slightly  swollen — puffy  about  the  lips  and  eyes. 

"Won't  you  show  it  to  me,  Cecil?"  she  asked. 

"I've  changed  my  mind,"  he  drawled. 

Something  in  Sophy's  breast  shrivelled. 

' '  Very  well, ' '  she  said  quietly ;  ' '  then  we  can  go  at 
once. ' ' 

Chesney  sank  his  head  deeper  in  his  shoulders,  settled 
his  body  deeper  in  the  sofa. 

"That's  what  I've  changed  my  mind  about,"  he  said. 
"I'm  not  going." 
'But  .  .  ." 
'I'm  not  going." 

'It's  a  dinner,  Cecil.  ...  It  will  be  very  rude." 
'  I  'm  not  going. ' ' 
'Shall  I  say  you're  ill?" 
'You're  not  going,  either." 

lie  grinned  it  at  her,  gloating  on  the  expression  of  her 
face.  She  went  pale  again,  then  crimson.  Her  eyebrows 
flickered  passionately. 

"I  am  going,"  she  said,  in  a  still  voice. 

Then  she  felt  his  fingers  go  softly  round  her  arm. 

"Sit  down  by  me,"  he  said,  drawing  her  delicately 
downward  by  the  arm  he  held.  Her  dignity  kept  her  from 
resisting.  She  was  drawn  down  among  the  deep  cushions 
beside  him.  The  warmth  that  his  great  body  had  left 
on  them  struck  her  bare  arms  and  shoulders,  giving  her  a 
feeling  of  repulsion.  As  she  sat  there,  armed  within  against 
him,  she  could  not  escape  from  breathing  his  breath,  his 
face  was  so  close  to  hers.  Its  odour  of  mingled  wines, 
cognac,  cigarette  smoke,  sickened  her.  The  strong,  sooty 
smell  of  cloth  from  the  arm  against  her  own  added  a  new 
pang,  for  this  smell  of  London  cloth,  which  was  so  dis 
tinct  to  her  foreign  sense,  had  been  once  associated  with 
the  fascination  of  love. 

Now  he  leaned  his  face  forward  and  looked  into  her 
eyes,  and  she  noticed  with  that  inward  shrivelling  how 
strange  his  were — so  much  paler  than  they  used  to  be — 
curiously  glassy — the  pupils  mere  specks  of  black  in  the 
centre  of  the  greenish  iris. 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  5 

"What's  the  use  of  posing  to  me?"  he  said,  with  a  sort 
of  blandness. 

"Posing  to  you?" 

"Yes — quite  so.  Doing  the  'chastest  icicle  on  Dian's 
Temple.'  You  forget — don't  you?  I've  seen  the  hidden 
fire." 

Sophy  said  nothing.  The  blood  started  to  her  cheek 
again  as  under  a  whip. 

He  moistened  his  lips  in  that  slow  way,  and  smiled. 

"Haven't  I?    Eh?" 

She  turned  him  a  very  quiet,  haughty  profile. 

"I  don't  pretend  to  understand  your  moods,  Cecil." 

"You  shall  share  this  present  one." 

"I  think  not." 

"I  think— 'yes/  : 

He  flung  his  arm  suddenly  around  her,  drawing  her 
close. 

"Look  here,"  he  said;  and,  taking  his  hand  from  the 
pages  of  the  book  where  it  had  been  resting,  he  lifted  the 
volume  toward  her.  As  her  eyes  lowered  themselves  to 
the  book,  his  fastened  upon  her  face.  The  next  moment 
she  had  sprung  up,  thrusting  him  from  her.  The  book 
lay  sprawled  on  the  floor  between  them.  It  was  a  very 
rare  volume  of  morbidly  licentious  engravings,  repulsive, 
abominable. 

She  was  livid  with  scorn  and  loathing.  Her  breast 
heaved.  She  felt  the  scalding  of  furious  tears  against 
her  eyelids.  She  could  not  speak;  and  with  that  bracelet 
of  his  big,  soft  fingers  about  her  wrist,  he  held  her,  laugh 
ing  silently,  convulsed  with  laughter. 

But  in  Sophy  there  sprang  to  life  something  that  was  as 
dangerous  as  anything  in  him. 

She  said,  whispering:  "You'll  be  sorry  all  your  life  if 
you  don't  take  your  hand  from  me." 

The  light  eyes  wavered.     Then  he  flung  back  her  hand. 

' '  Damme  if  you  're  worth  the  candle ! "  he  said. 

She  turned  and  began  walking  quietly  away  from  him. 

This  seemed  quite  to  frenzy  him. 

He  leaped  over  the  fallen  book  and  came  at  her  like  a 
bull,  his  head  lowered.  He  took  her  by  both  shoulders. 

"Look  here !"  he  said.  "What  do  you  mean  by  wearing 
those  pearls  of  Gerald's  all  the  time?" 

Sophy  looked  at  him  whitely.     She  smiled. 


6  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

"They  were  given  me  to  wear,  I  believe." 

"He's  in  love  with  you — with  his  brother's  wife!  But 
I'll  not  have  his  baubles  on  your  neck,  nor  antlers  on  my 
own  head.  Off  with  them!" 

She  stood  frozenly.  Her  dark  eyes  poured  scorn  upon 
him.  He  made  a  snatch  at  the  necklace — another.  She 
stood  quite  motionless,  while  the  great,  angry  hands 
snatched  at  her  throat.  His  last  clutch  broke  the  string. 
The  pearls  rained  down,  some  into  her  bosom,  the  greater 
part  upon  the  polished  floor.  He  stood  heavily,  gazing 
at  the  little  white  drops,  as  they  rolled  over  the  dark 
wood  of  the  parquet. 

While  he  gazed  as  if  hypnotised,  Sophy  went  swiftly  out 
into  the  hall.  She  closed  the  door  behind  her.  Her  voice 
roused  him,  saying:  "Mr.  Chesney  isn't  feeling  well 
enough  to  go  out  to-night.  I  shall  go  alone.  Is  the  cab 
there?" 

He  heard  the  butler's  voice  answering. 

She  knew  that  he  would  not  make  a  scene  before  the 
servants.  Changing  quickly  to  another  mood,  he  glanced 
at  the  closed  door,  grinning  at  her  astuteness.  Then  care' 
fully  he  gathered  up  the  fallen  pearls  and  dropped  them 
into  his  pocket. 

Filling  a  liqueur  glass  with  cognac  from  the  table  which 
the  butler  had  already  arranged  for  the  evening,  he 
slouched  back  to  the  sofa  and  lifted  the  fallen  volume. 
The  brandy  calmed  him  still  further.  He  sat  there  for 
two  hours  sipping  the  cognac,  moistening  his  lips  slowly 
every  now  and  then,  poring  over  the  licentious  pictures. 


II 

IN  the  hansom,  glad  to  be  alone,  Sophy  sat  with  her  arms 
tight  against  her  breast  as  though  she  would  keep  some 
thing  in  her  from  bursting.  She  felt  singing  from  head 
to  foot  like  a  twanged  bowstring.  She  sat  gazing  at  the 
rhythmic  play  of  the  horse's  glossy  quarters,  and  the  soft 
blur  of  the  May  night.  There  had  been  a  slight  shower. 
The  pavements  were  sleek  and  dark.  There  was  a  smell 
of  soot  and  wet  young  leaves  in  the  air,  as  of  town  and 
country  oddly  mingled  in  a  kiss. 

As  this  idea  occurred  to  her,  she  made  a  movement  of 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  7 

irritation.  Kisses!  Why  should  she  think  of  kisses? 
They  were  nature's  most  banal  lures — nauseous.  And 
moodily,  her  eyes  still  black  from  the  spread  pupils,  she 
recalled  Cecil's  first  kiss  and  what  it  had  meant  to  her. 
Something  golden,  vague,  wonderful,  fulfilling,  yet  promis 
ing  more — more  than  fulfilment — an  opening  of  new  de 
sires,  new  aspirations,  future  fulfilments  more  splendid 
still.  He  had  been  a  great  lover.  A  line  flashed  to  her. 
It  sparkled  through  her  mind,  searing  and  cynical: 

As  wolves  love  lambs — so  lovers  love  their  loves. 

He  was  wolf,  now — she,  lamb.  Ah,  well;  no!  He  was 
mistaken — she  was  jaguar,  leopard,  catamount  (he  had 
called  her  a  "silky  catamount"  in  one  of  his  rages),  any 
thing  but  lamb.  She  could  feel  her  fangs  growing.  They 
were  no  longer  little  milk-teeth  at  which  he  laughed.  Some 
day — if  he  continued  to  treat  her  in  this  way — some  day 
she  would  strike  and  strike  with  them — deep  into  some 
vital  part  of  that  which  still  lived  and  which  had  once 
been  love.  Yes;  it  would  be  better  to  drag  a  corpse  be 
tween  them  than  this  fierce,  bloated,  soulless  body  that  had 
once  been  inhabited  by  love. 

But  what  was  it?  What  had  changed  him?  She  had 
not  been  unhappy  at  first,  though  shocked  by  a  certain 
violence  in  his  passion  for  her  which  had  verged  on  the 
brutal.  In  her  own  impassioned  ignorance  she  had  told 
herself  that  this  must  be  the  man  in  him.  Later,  some 
thing  finer,  surer,  stronger  than  reason,  convinced  her 
that  this  was  not  so — that  the  blazing  bowels  of  a  smelt 
ing  furnace  have  nothing  in  common  with  the  star-sown 
flame  of  love.  She  mused  on  the  origin  of  the  word  desire. 
"De  sidera" — a  turning  from  the  stars.  Yes;  his  back 
was  toward  the  stars. 

A  waft  of  perfume  from  the  rose-geraniums  in  the  win 
dow-boxes  of  a  house  near  which  they  were  passing  over 
came  her  with  homesickness. 

She  saw  the  lawn  at  "Sweet- Waters,"  the  ring  of  old 
acacia  trees,  the  little  round,  green  wooden  tables  in  their 
midst,  covered  with  pots  of  mignonette  and  rose-geranium 
—herself  and  Charlotte  swinging  in  the  hammocks  near-by 
—the  peep  of  blue  mountains  through  the  hedge  of  box. 
Oh!  to  feel  Charlotte's  arms  around  her! 


8  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

She  pinched  the  back  of  her  hand  sharply,  feeling  the 
tears  start.  Virginia  was  far  away,  like  her  childhood, 
like  her  dead  mother,  like  all  the  other  simple,  lovely  things 
that  had  made  life  joyous. 

How  strange  it  seemed  to  think  that  the  old,  familiar 
life  was  going  on  there  just  the  same !  She  had  given  her 
big  chestnut,  Hal,  to  Charlotte,  when  she  married  Cecil. 
Charlotte  wrote  that  she  rode  him  every  day.  Oh,  for  a 
ride  through  the  Virginian  fields  and  woods !  Oh,  to  hear 
the  soft  jargon  of  the  darkies — to  have  if  only  twenty- 
four  hours  of  the  old,  free,  simple  life ! 

The  cab  stopped  before  a  house  in  Bruton  Street.  This 
was  London.  Perhaps  there  was  no  Virginia.  Perhaps 
she  had  only  dreamed  it. 

When  she  found  that  her  hostess  had  not  yet  come  down, 
she  was  startled. 

' '  Am  I  too  early  ?  Isn  't  dinner  at  eight  ? ' '  she  asked  the 
butler. 

"At  half -past  eight,  madam." 

"Never  mind.     I  will  go  up  to  Mrs.  Arundel's  room." 

She  went  upstairs  and  knocked  at  Olive's  door. 

"Who  is  it?"  said  a  sweet,  slight  voice. 

' '  Sophy.     I  've  come  too  early. ' ' 

"Oh,  you  darling!"  called  the  voice.  "Come  in.  It 
isn't  locked."  Sophy  heard  her  add,  "Open  the  door 
for  Mrs.  Chesney,  Marie." 

She  opened  the  door  herself  before  the  maid  could  reach 
it,  and  entered.  The  room  was  charming  grey  and  pink. 
The  dressing-table  was  as  elaborate  as  a  lady-altar.  Be 
fore  it  sat  Olive,  with  her  beautiful  powdery  brown  hair 
over  her  shoulders.  Only  one  soft  puff  was  in  place  at 
the  back  of  her  head.  The  air  was  full  of  the  scent  of 
"Chypre,"  a  perfume  then  very  fashionable  and  which 
Sophy  disliked.  She  could  not  understand  why  Olive  used 
it.  "Violet"  or  "Clover"  would  have  suited  her  so  much 
better. 

She  went  up  to  Olive,  and  they  kissed  each  other. 

"You  darling!"  said  Mrs.  Arundel  again.  "How  stun 
ning  you  look!  And  what  luck!  Did  you  think  it  was 
for  eight?" 

"I  thought  your  note  said  eight  o'clock." 

' '  Then  it  was  my  beastly  handwriting.  But  I  'm  awfully 
glad,  all  the  same.  Now  we  can  have  a  comfy  talk." 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  9 

Sophy  sat  in  a  little  Louis  XVI  chair  and  watched  the 
hair-dressing.  She  thought,  as  she  so  often  did,  how 
much  prettier  it  would  look  dressed  simply,  without  being 
frizzled  so  elaborately  in  front  and  puffed  so  intricately 
behind.  Mrs.  Arundel's  face  had  taken  on  the  serious 
look  that  women's  faces  wear  when  their  hair  is  being 
dressed.  Her  eyes  were  large  and  candid,  of  a  soft 
Madonna-blue.  Her  small,  prettily  shaped  mouth  was  pas 
tel  pink.  All  her  features  were  small  and  prettily  shaped. 
She  was  the  type  of  woman  who  still  looks  girlish  at  thir 
ty-five.  As  Sophy  watched  her  she  was  also  thinking  of 
how  even  her  friends  said  that  "Olive  was  never  happy  un 
less  she  had  a  lover."  Three  years  in  England  had  taught 
Sophy  that  a  woman  may  be  an  excellent  mother,  a  good 
friend,  an  attentive  wife,  and  yet  have  "lovers."  How 
strange  it  seemed  to  her!  She  could  not  imagine  such  a 
thing  happening  without  an  upheaval  of  the  universe — 
her  universe,  at  least.  She  could  understand  a  woman, 
made  desperate  by  unhappiness,  "running  away"  from 
her  husband  with  another  man — but  to  go  on  living  with 

one  man  as  his  wife  and  having  a  lover — lovers She 

had  given  up  trying  to  solve  it.  She  knew  that  Olive's 
present  flame  was  a  Roman  nobleman — Count  Varesca — 
an  attache  of  the  Italian  Embassy.  She  seemed  to  bloom 
under  it  into  a  sort  of  recrudescence  of  virginal  charm. 

"How  you  stare  with  your  great  eyes,  you  dear!"  said 
Olive.  "Don't  I  look  nice?" 

"You  look  perfectly  lovely." 

"Wait  till  you  see  what  a  deevy  frock  Jean  has  sent 
me." 

"Jean  Worth?" 

"Is  there  any  other  Jean?" 

Sophy  laughed. 

Then  Olive  sent  Marie  away. 

"You  know,  Sophy  dear,  I  really  have  something  to 
tell  you." 

"Is  it  nice?" 

"No,  it's  nasty  .  .  .  perfectly  disgusting!" 

"What  is  it  about?" 

"Your  dear  mother-in-law — Lady  Wychcote." 

Sophy  stiffened. 

"Well?"  she  said. 

' '  Sophy  dear !    You  mustn  't  take  it  too  seriously.    Only 


10  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

— I  thought  you  ought  to  know.  She's  saying  it  every 
where.  ' ' 

"Saying  what?"  asked  Sophy  quietly.  "Please  go  on, 
Olive." 

' '  She 's  saying  perfectly  beastly  things  about  your  influ 
ence  on  Cecil.  Trying  to  put  it  all  on  you." 

"To  put  what  on  me?" 

' '  All  his — his  queerness.  She  says  you  've  alienated  him 
from  his  family.  And  ..." 

Even  Olive's  glib  little  tongue  stuck  here. 

"Well?"  said  Sophy,  as  before. 

' '  She 's  saying Oh,  she 's  really  a  beast,  that  woman ! 

She's  saying  that  you've  given  him  drugs  .  .  .  taught  him 
how  to  take  them." 

"Drugs?"  said  Sophy.  Her  brows  knitted  together. 
She  was  very  pale.  "Drugs?"  she  repeated. 

"Yes — opium — morphine  .  .  .  that  kind  of  thing.  .  .  . 
I  consulted  Jack  before  telling  you."  (Jack  was  Mr. 
Arundel.)  "And  he  said  I  should  by  all  means.  You 
aren't  vexed  with  me  for  telling  you,  are  you?" 

Olive's  italics  were  very  plaintive. 

Sophy  was  looking  down  at  the  tip  of  her  shoe,  which 
she  moved  slightly  to  and  fro  on  the  soft  carpet.  She  said 
in  a  low  voice,  very  gently: 

"No;  I  thank  you." 

Then  she  turned  and  went  to  the  window,  pulling  aside 
the  curtains  and  looking  blindly  out  into  the  soft,  pale 
night. 

Drugs!  She  had  never  thought  of  that  in  her  inex 
perience.  All  resentment  at  her  mother-in-law's  accusa 
tion  was  engulfed  in  that  appalling  revelation. 

Behind  her  back,  Mrs.  Arundel  stole  nervous  peeps  at 
the  little  ormolu  clock  on  the  mantelpiece.  That  new 
frock  had  quantities  of  hooks  and  eyes  on  it.  She  wished 
now  that  she  had  not  sent  Marie  away,  or  that  she  had 
waited  to  tell  Sophy  until  the  gown  was  on.  It  was  un 
fortunate.  One  couldn't  go  up  to  a  person  who  was  over 
come  with  righteous  wrath  and  say:  "Would  you  mind, 
dear,  just  hooking  me  up,  before  you  give  way  further  to 
your  feelings?" 

But  just  here  Sophy  turned  and  came  towards  her. 

"We'd  better  be  getting  on  with  your  toilette,  Olive," 
she  said. 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  11 

""What  a  darling  you  are!"  cried  Mrs.  Arundel,  quite 
melted.  "You're  so  unselfish.  ...  It's  perfectly  touch 
ing." 

Sophy  couldn't  help  smiling. 

"It  isn't  unselfishness,"  she  said;  "it's  the  instinct  of 
self-preservation.  I  can't  give  way  to  decent,  moderate 
little  angers." 

She  was  talking  to  keep  Olive  from  seeing  how  deep 
the  thing  had  pierced  her.  And  she  hooked  deftly  and 
lightly,  with  fingers  that  were  icy  cold  but  nimble.  After 
she  had  admired  her  friend  and  the  new  gown  sufficiently, 
she  said:  "Was  there  any  more?  What  motive  did  she 
say  I  had?" 

Mrs.  Arundel  glanced  slyly  at  the  clock  again.  She 
had  still  a  good  twenty  minutes  before  her  guests  would 
arrive. 

"Let's  sit  here  cozily  by  the  window — and  I'll  tell  you 
everything!" 

The  homely  yet  amorous  fragrance  from  the  white  car 
nations  in  the  window-box  flowed  gently  over  them.  It 
drowned  out  the  smell  of  soot — the  London  smell.  They 
might  have  been  in  a  cottage-garden. 

' '  My  dear, ' '  Olive  began,  ' '  the  old  cat  hates  you.  That 
explains  evewything. " 

' '  She  hates  all  Americans, ' '  said  Sophy  evenly. 

"So  stupid  of  her!  Yes;  I  believe  she  does.  And  she's 
wild  with  rage  because  poor,  dear  Gerald  is  sickly — and 
won't  marry.  And  Cecil  has  married  you  and  flouted  the 
family  politics." 

' '  Those  liberal  articles  he  wrote  some  years  ago  ? ' ' 

"  'Liberal'!  You  never  read  such  radical  stuff  in 
your  life!  The  Wychcotes  are  the  Toriest  Tories  in  Eng 
land.  Yes;  he  did  that.  That  was  bad  enough.  Then 
he  went  exploring  in  Africa  and  got  laurels  from  the 
R.  G.  S.  and  chucked  that.  But  you  know  it  all 

"Yes,"  said  Sophy. 

"He's  really  awfully  able,  Sophy — bwilliant " 

"Yes.     I  know." 

Olive  paused  a  moment. 

"Can't  you  do  anything  with  him,  Sophy?" 

"No." 

' '  Poor  dear !  Well,  I  suppose  not.  He  was  always  as 
obstinate  as — as  .  .  a  Behemoth." 


12  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

Sophy  couldn't  restrain  a  tired  little  laugh. 

"Well,  you  know  what  I  mean.  But  when  one  thinks 
of  how  .  .  ." 

Sophy  broke  in  on  her  firmly : 

"Olive  dear,  this  isn't  telling  me  'everything.'  I  want 
to  know  what  motives  Lady  Wychcote  attributes  to  me." 

"Really,  dear — it's  so  disgusting  of  her!" 

"What  did  she  say?" 

"You  will  have  it?" 

"Yes  .  .  .  please." 

' '  She  says  you  want  to  get  rid  of  Cecil  on  account  of 
Gerald." 

Sophy  was  silent  for  some  moments.  Olive  leaned  for 
ward  and  took  her  hand,  caressing  it. 

"Don't  mind  too  much,  dear,"  she  coaxed.  "Only — 
be  on  your  guard." 

Ill 

THE  dinner  was  as  pleasant  and  heterogeneous  as  Olive's 
dinners  always  were.  But  Sophy  could  not  rouse  from  the 
dark  mood  into  which  Olive's  confidences  had  thrown  her. 
The  hateful  scene  with  her  husband  had  already  destroyed 
all  the  gay  anticipation  which  she  had  felt  at  the  idea  of 
an  evening  in  the  brilliant,  whimsical  world  that  liked  and 
spoiled  her.  She  had  been  kept  at  home  by  Cecil's  hu 
mours  and  strange  illness  all  during  the  early  spring.  Of 
late,  he  had  been  in  his  gentler  frame  of  mind.  Very 
"nice"  to  her.  He  had  seemed  to  want  her  to  have  the 
pleasure  of  this  evening's  gaiety.  She  was  only  twenty- 
seven.  To  be  known  as  a  beauty  in  London  society,  and 
petted  by  some  of  its  most  famous  circle — this  was  very 
bewitching  to  seven-and-twenty — even  with  Tragedy  glow 
ering  in  the  background.  But  now  all  was  spoiled  for  her. 

As  she  went  with  Olive  again  to  the  latter 's  bedroom, 
while  the  other  women  chattered  over  their  wraps  in  the 
hall  below,  she  said:  "I  don't  think  I'll  go  on  to  this 
musicale  with  you,  Olive.  I'm  tired.  I  think  I'll  just 
have  Parkson  call  me  a  cab  and  go  home." 

"Now  ...  I  do  feel  a  wretch!"  Mrs.  Arundel  ex 
claimed,  turning  on  her  a  reproachful  face.  "It's  those 
horrid  things  I  repeated  to  you,  of  course!" 

She  caught  both  Sophy 's  hands  in  hers. 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  13 

"Don't  make  me  feel  a  pig  by  not  going,  there's  a 
darling,"  she  pleaded.  "Don't,  don't  be  morbid!" 

"I'm  not  morbid — I'm  really  tired,"  said  Sophy,  look 
ing  down  at  the  tip  of  her  shoe  and  moving  it  softly  on 
the  carpet,  in  that  way  she  had  when  deeply  troubled  or 
very  angry. 

"And  if  you  will  go  home,  don't  talk  about  having  a 
cab.  I'll  send  you  in  Jack's  brougham.  It's  beastly  of 
Cecil  not  giving  you  a  carriage ! ' ' 

"He  says  we  can't  afford  it." 

"Then  Gerald  ought  to  give  you  one.  The  Wychcotes 
simply  stink  of  money ! ' ' 

Sophy  smiled  faintly.  She  could  never  get  used  to 
hearing  such  words  come  so  simply  from  pretty  lips.  Her 
black  "Mammy"  had  once  washed  her  little  tongue  with 
soap  for  saying  "stink." 

"I  know,"  she  said;  "but  Gerald  gives  Cecil  an  allow 
ance  as  it  is." 

Olive  opened  her  hyacinth-blue  eyes  frankly. 

"But  Cecil  had  quite  a  fortune  of  his  own!  How  does 
that  happen?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Sophy  tiredly.  Money  did  not 
interest  her.  She  had  a  thousand  dollars  a  year  from 
her  father's  estate.  That  gave  her  a  rich  feeling  of  in 
dependence.  She  loved  to  feel  that  her  clothes,  even  her 
underlinen  and  shoes  and  stockings,  were  bought  with  her 
own  money.  She  did  not  know  how  much  it  was  that  Ger 
ald  Wychcote  allowed  his  younger  brother.  She  had  never 
asked.  But  she  knew  that  the  house  in  Regent's  Park  be 
longed  to  Gerald  and  that  he  let  them  have  it  for  a  nomi 
nal  rent. 

"I  think  it's  a  shame!"  said  Olive.  "I  suppose  he 
made  ducks  and  drakes  of  it  with  that  exploring  fad,  and 
travelling  in  India  and  such  places.  Such  nonsense!" 

Then  she  took  Sophy's  hand  again. 

"Do  come!"  she  coaxed.  "There's  a  perfect  dear  of 
a  man  I  want  you  so  much  to  meet.  A  friend  of  Vares- 
ca's — a  Lombard  nobleman,  the  Marchese  Amaldi.  Ital 
ians  are  perfectly  enchanting.  Don't  you  think  so? — I  am 
like  Lord  Carlisle  .  .  .  'Italianissimo'!" 

Sophy  smiled  vaguely,  remembering  when  Olive  had 
been  Austrianissimo  and  Irishissimo  and  Frenchissimo. 

"Does  that  smile  mean  you're  coming?     Ah,  do!    Marco 


14  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

Amaldi  is  the  most  heavenly  man  I  ever  knew  .  .  .  except 
Varesca. ' ' 

"A  'heavenly'  man?" 

Sophy  was  still  smiling. 

"Yes.     Perfectly  deevy;  and  so  clever!" 

Suddenly  Sophy's  smile  faded  and  her  eyes  grew  dark. 

"Now  you've  got  your  'fey'  look,"  said  Mrs.  Arundel, 
watching  her  curiously.  "What  does  it  mean?  Going 
with  me?" 

Sophy  did  not  speak  at  once.  Her  eyes  seemed  to 
watch  something  forming  slowly,  far  away — something 
that  gathered  distinctness  against  the  confused  background 
of  life's  harlequinade.  Suddenly  she  started,  closed  her 
eyelids  an  instant,  then  looked  at  Olive.  Her  eyes  were 
still  wide  and  vague.  They  looked  slightly  out  of  focus, 
like  the  eyes  of  a  baby  staring  at  a  flame.  Olive  felt  a 
little  shiver  go  over  her. 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked.     "What  do  you  see?" 

"Nothing.  It's  just  a  feeling.  I '11  go  with  you.  Some 
thing  is  going  to  happen  to  me  to-night.  Something  im 
portant.  The  room  will  have  three  windows " 

She  broke  off  again,  and  looked  from  Olive's  face,  far 
away. 

Mrs.  Arundel 's  voice  took  on  an  awed  tone.  "Are  you 
really  superstitious,  Sophy?" 

"About  that,  I  am."' 

"About  what?" 

"About  a  room  with  three  windows.  Don't  ask  me.  I 
can't  explain  it.  It's  just  a  feeling." 

"Olive!  .  .  .  Come  along!  We'll  be  late!"  shouted 
Arundel,  from  the  hall. 

The  two  women  went  down  together,  Mrs.  Arundel  still 
rather  awed.  Sophy's  eyes  were  really  so  uncanny  some 
times.  Very,  very  beautiful,  of  course,  but  eerie.  Now 
if  she,  Olive  Arundel,  were  a  man — she  would  prefer 
something  less  peculiar,  more  "human."  Olive  was  very 
fond  of  this  word,  "human."  She  felt  that,  like  charity, 
it  covered  a  multitude  of  sins — pretty,  pleasant  little  sins. 

When  they  reached  the  Ponceforths',  the  musicale  was 
in  full  swing.  Some  one  was  singing  a  song  by  Maude 
Valerie  White.  Sophy  heard  a  little  gasp  from  Olive — 
her  arm  was  impetuously  seized. 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  15 

"Sophy,"  she  whispered,  in  spite  of  the  singing,  "there 
are  three  windows ! ' ' 

Sophy,  too,  was  gazing  at  the  windows.  She  said  noth 
ing.  An  artist  had  lent  his  flat  to  the  Ponceforths  for 
their  musicale.  The  big  studio  made  such  a  capital  place 
for  singing.  There  were  three  wide  windows  at  one  end. 

Sophy  moved  forward  as  in  a  sort  of  daze,  half  pleas 
ant,  half  fearful.  That  feeling  as  of  an  imminent  crisis 
grew  on  her.  Some  one  brought  her  to  a  chair.  It  was  a 
little  apart  from  the  other  chairs.  She  sat  rather  rigidly, 
her  hands  one  over  the  other  in  her  lap.  Her  profile 
shone  like  pearly  gold  against  a  curtain  of  brown  velvet. 
Presently  she  felt  that  some  one  was  watching  her  with 
peculiar  intentness.  Little  spangles  of  sensation  crept 
over  the  back  of  her  head.  It  was  as  though  a  little  elec 
tric  feather  were  being  drawn  softly  along  her  hair.  Then 
Jean  de  Reszke  began  to  sing.  It  was  a  wild  Hungarian 
folk-song  that  he  sang  with  that  warm,  wild  voice  of  his. 
The  words  meant  nothing  to  her.  The  voice  told  her  that 
it  was  a  song  of  love  and  the  despair  even  of  love  fulfilled. 

De  Reszke  finished  his  song  on  a  slow,  melancholy  note 
like  a  ray  of  fading  sunlight  in  autumn.  All  the  melan 
choly  of  late  autumn  seemed  to  penetrate  Sophy's  bosom. 
Then  a  quick  revulsion  of  feeling  seized  her.  That  ' '  some 
thing" — that  "something"  that  was  going  to  "happen" 
was  near  her — drawing  closer. 

Varesca's  handsome  little  face  bent  smiling  towards  her. 

"Mrs.  Chesney,  I  have  a  friend  who  cannot  wait  for 
the  music  to  be  done  for  being  introduced  to  you.  May 
I  bring  him? — the  Marchese  Amaldi — a  good  friend  of 
mine."  Varesca's  rather  quaint  English  sounded  pleasant 
to  her. 

"Why,  yes — do,"  she  said,  smiling  at  him. 

"Marco "  said  Varesca,  half  turning.  Amaldi,  who 

had  stood  just  behind  Sophy,  came  forward.  They  looked 
gravely  at  each  other  while  she  gave  him  her  hand.  Be 
fore  they  could  speak,  the  girl  who  had  been  at  first  sing 
ing  began  another  song.  For  a  second  longer,  Sophy  and 
Amaldi  continued  to  look  at  each  other  in  that  quiet,  se 
rious  way.  Then  she  turned  her  eyes  on  the  singer.  That 
had  been  a  strange  feeling — the  feeling  which  had  come 
over  her  as  she  met  Amaldi 's  eyes.  It  was  as  if  they  were 
recognising  each  other,  rather  than  just  becoming  ac- 


16 

quainted.  As  the  girl  went  on  with  the  rather  tiresome 
song,  Sophy  turned  her  head  and  glanced  at  him  again. 
This  time  he  smiled,  very  slightly.  She  smiled  in  answer. 
Yes ;  it  was  really  as  if  they  were  old  friends  meeting  thus 
unexpectedly  again. 

And  how  charming  his  face  was — dark  and  irregular! 
Now,  again,  that  she  saw  him  without  looking  at  him,  in 
that  way  women  have,  she  thought  he  had  a  reserved  air. 
She  always  noticed  at  once  the  colour  of  people's  eyes. 
Amaldi's  wTere  a  clear  olive.  His  figure  showed  a  lithe 
symmetry  as  he  leaned  relaxed  against  the  curtain  of 
brown  velvet.  He  was  not  very  tall ;  but,  though  slender, 
he  looked  strong.  It  was  odd  how  everything  about  him 
seemed  familiar  to  her. 


IV 

THE  songs  followed  one  another  quickly.  There  was  no 
time  fojr  conversation  in  between.  Now  and  then,  Sophy 
glanced  at  Amaldi.  "If  I  were  a  Roman  Catholic  and  he 
were  a  priest,"  she  thought  oddly,  "I  could  confess  any 
thing  to  him."  Then  she  smiled,  her  eyes  on  the  open 
mouth  of  the  singer.  That  had  been  such  a  queer  thought ! 
Amaldi  looked  so  little  like  a  priest.  Rather  as  if  he  might 
make  an  impetuous  soldier.  Yes — one  of  those  young, 
fierce  soldiers  of  the  Risorgimento.  With  her  quick,  visual 
ising  fancy,  she  tried  to  place  him  in  his  proper  setting — as 
a  child.  What  sort  of  home  had  he  lived  in  as  a  child? 
What  sort  of  countryside  held  his  dearest  memories  as 
"Sweet- Waters"  held  hers?  Como?  Had  he  lived  in  a 
beautiful  old  villa  on  Como?  Had  he  played  with  the 
little  peasants  of  Cadenabbia?  She  saw  the  lovely  lake 
floating  purplish  blue  before  her — the  dull  silver  of  snow- 
peaks.  Amaldi  as  a  brown-legged  boy  wrestling  with  the 
little  villagers — swimming  naked  with  them  in  the  purplish 
water  like  a  little  brown  fish. 

Suddenly  Olive  leaned  over  and  whispered : 
"This  is  getting  dreadfully  dull  and  stuffy.     Don't  you 
think  so?     Jean  wron't  sing  any  more.     Do  come  with  me. 
I'm  going  on  to  Kitty  Illingham's  ball." 

Without  waiting  for  Sophy  to  answer,  she  said  to  Va- 
resca : 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  17 

"Do  help  me  to  persuade  her — you  and  Amaldi." 

Varesca  obediently  began  to  gush  forth  entreaties. 
Amaldi  said  nothing.  She  had  not  yet  heard  the  sound  of 
his  voice.  But  his  eyes  said :  "Please  come." 

"Very  well,"  said  Sophy  to  Olive. 

When  she  entered  the  ballroom,  she  felt,  rather  than 
saw,  people  turning  to  look  after  her.  She  had  the  oddest 
feeling  of  being  glad  that  she  was  tall — that  there  was  so 
much  of  her  to  feel  that  keen  flame  of  life  that  had  sprung 
up  so  suddenly  within  her. 

A  woman  who  admired  her  said  to  a  man: 

' '  Do  look  at  Sophy  Chesney !  It  does  her  good  to  be  im 
mured  by  her  ogre.  She 's  simply  ablaze,  to-night ! ' ' 

The  man  said : 

"I  know  she's  been  called  the  most  beautiful  American 
in  England.  But  I  never  thought  so  till  to-night. ' ' 

Sophy  herself  wondered  if  this  queer,  super-vitalised 
sensation  that  she  had  was  happiness.  She  could  not  tell. 
She  was  only  one  throb  of  exultation  at  being  alive. 

A  voice  spoke  close  beside  her. 

' '  Will  you  dance  this  with  me  ? ' '  Amaldi  was  asking. 

And  as  she  moved  off  with  him,  it  seemed  as  if  they  had 
often  danced  together  before. 

When  they  stopped  they  found  themselves  near  the  con 
servatory. 

"Let  us  sit  in  there  a  while,"  she  said. 

They  sat  down  near  a  bank  of  gardenias,  and  Amaldi 
fanned  her  with  her  fan  of  white  peacock  feathers. 

' '  You  're  not  afraid  to  use  peacock 's  feathers  ? "  he  asked, 
smiling.  "In  Italy  we  are  superstitious  about  them." 

She  answered,  smiling  also:  "I  have  my  full  share  of 
superstition,  but  not  about  things  like  that.  Are  you 
really  afraid  of  peacock's  feathers?" 

"No;  but  my  mother  wouldn't  have  one  near  her  for 
worlds.  She  says  that  she  has  added  all  the  Italian  super 
stitions  to  the  American  ones. ' ' 

"Is  your  mother  an  American?"  said  Sophy,  surprised 
and  pleased  at  this  idea.  If  Amaldi 's  mother  was  an 
American,  that  would  account  in  a  great  measure,  she 
thought,  for  her  feeling  towards  him — that  odd  feeling  of 
having  known  him  before. 

"Yes,"  Amaldi  was  saying.  "I  am  half  American 
through  my  mother.  She  was  a  Miss  Brainton." 


18  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

"I  am  an  American,"  said  Sophy;  "a  Virginian.  My 
name  was  Sophy  Taliaferro.  And  that's  odd" — she  broke 
off,  realising  that  her  maiden  name  was  probably  of  Ital 
ian  origin — "because,  though  it's  pronounced  'Tolliver,' 
it's  spelt  'Taliaferro.'  I  never  really  thought  of  it  before 
—but  the  first  Taliaferro  must  have  been  an  Italian ! ' ' 

"Why,  yes,"  said  Amaldi  eagerly.  "There  is  a  Taglia- 
ferro  family  in  Italy." 

"So  you're  half  American  and  I'm  half  Italian,"  she 
went  on,  looking  at  him  pleasedly  out  of  her  candid  eyes. 
"Such  coincidences  are  strange,  aren't  they?" 

"They're  very  delightful,"  said  Amaldi,  in  a  voice  as 
frank  as  her  look.  He  was  thinking:  "You  are  the 
woman  I  have  imagined  all  my  life.  It  seems  very  wonder 
ful  that  you  should  have  Italian  blood." 

Sophy  liked  this  frank  voice  of  his  and  the  clear  look 
in  his  eyes  so  much  that  she  gave  way  to  impulse. 

"It  seems  to  me,"  she  said  with  the  smile  that  he  was 
beginning  to  watch  for,  "that  Fate  means  us  to  become 
friends. ' ' 

Amaldi  thought:  "And  there  is  something  of  the  child 
in  you  that  makes  me  worship." 

He  said  a  little  formally,  but  with  feeling: 

"I  should  consider  that  the  greatest  honour  that  could 
come  to  me. ' '  Then  he  added,  also  under  impulse :  ' '  Since 
you're  so  kind,  I'd  like  to  confess  something.  May  I?" 

"Yes — do!"  said  Sophy,  still  smiling. 

"It  is  this:  When  Varesca  introduced  me  to  you  this 
evening,  I  had  the  feeling  of  having  known  you  before. 
Strange,  wasn't  it?" 

She  was  looking  at  him,  her  lips  parted.  She  hesitated 
an  instant,  then  said: 

"It  was  even  stranger  than  you  know — because  I,  too, 
had  that  feeling  about  you.  Such  things  almost  make  one 
believe  in  the  old  Hindu  ideas.  Perhaps  in  some  other 
world  and  age  we  have  been  friends  already.  It's  really 
very  mysterious  ..." 

"But,  after  all,"  said  Amaldi,  "mystery  is  what  makes 
life  worth  while." 

' '  I  know, ' '  she  said  ;  ' '  yet  people  are  always  trying  to 
solve  it  .  .  ." 

' '  Yes ;  that 's  one  of  its  chief  uses,  I  suppose — but  not  its 
end." 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  19 

Sophy  looked  at  him,  interested. 

"What  do  you  think  its  end  is?"  she  asked. 

"Itself,"  he  answered.  He  went  on  in  a  lighter  tone: 
"The  destiny  of  the  Churchly  God  has  always  seemed  so 
dreary  to  me.  Think  of  it!  A  supremely  well-informed 
Supreme  Man — for  whom  there  could  be  no  mystery.  An 
immortality  of  sound  information  that  couldn't  be  added 
to  or  subtracted  from!" 

"We  really  couldn't  help  being  friends,  you  know!" 
said  Sophy,  smiling.  ' '  You  must  come  to  see  me.  My  hus 
band  is  not  very  well — so  I  don 't  give  dinners  or  parties  or 
go  out  much  myself.  But  I  like  to  have  my  friends  come 
to  see  me." 

Amaldi  thought: 

"You  have  the  most  beautiful  heart,  and  I  don't  mis 
understand  it.  It  is  full  only  of  kindness.  I  shall  suffer 
.  .  .  ma  ciao!" 

"Ciao"  is  Milanese,  and  it  means  many  things. 


IT  was  four  o'clock  when  Sophy  and  Mrs.  Arundel  left  the 
ball.  Olive  would  not  hear  of  her  taking  a  cab,  but  sent 
her  home  in  her  own  carriage.  As  she  rolled  through  the 
empty  streets,  above  which  the  dawn  was  beginning  to 
quicken,  Sophy  had  a  queer  feeling  of  driving  through  the 
echoing  halls  of  a  vast  and  sinister  house  from  which 
the  roof  had  been  lifted. 

Above  Regent 's  Park  a  late  moon  hung  bleak  and  glassy. 
It  shone  with  that  wan  glare  as  of  a  planet  sick  to  death. 
Richard  Burton's  line  about  the  moon  occurred  to  her: 
"A  corpse  upon  the  way  of  night."  The  reaction  of  her 
extraordinary  exhilaration  of  the  early  evening  was  upon 
her.  All  about  her  seemed  eldritch,  sinister.  Even  the 
sparrows,  the  town's  familiars,  the  excellent,  shrewd  gos 
sips  of  the  pavement,  seemed  unlike  real  birds. 

When  she  entered  her  own  hall,  the  sight  of  the  pallid, 
heavy-eyed  footman  who  admitted  her  distressed  her  still 
further.  She  hated  servants  to  have  to  wait  up  for  her. 
She  always  gave  Tilda  strict  orders  to  go  to  bed. 

The  footman  lighted  and  gave  her  her  bedroom  candle. 
Chesney  disliked  gas  to  burn  all  night. 


20  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

"Good-night,  William.  I'm  afraid  you  are  very  tired," 
said  Sophy. 

"Not  at  all,  madam,"  said  William  politely.  His  tone 
suggested  that  he  really  preferred  taking  his  rest  on  a 
hard  hall-chair  with  an  hour's  nap  in  bed  before  rising  at 
six  o'clock. 

Sophy  sighed  as  she  went  upstairs.  All  her  exultant 
feeling  of  the  evening  had  been  only  another  illusion.  The 
time  was  out  of  joint  again.  As  she  passed  Chesney's  door, 
a  thick,  heavy  smell  of  lamp-smoke  made  her  turn.  She 
tried  the  knob  softly.  The  door  opened,  and  the  nauseous 
smell  flooded  her.  Yes;  he  had  gone  to  sleep  still  poring 
over  that  odious  book.  The  lamp,  almost  burnt  out,  was 
sending  up  a  thick,  brownish  smoke — the  wick,  barely  moist 
with  oil,  was  fringed  with  little  mushrooms  of  fire.  Sophy 
extinguished  the  lamp  and  stood  gazing  down  at  her  hus 
band.  He  had  been  a  magnificent  looking  man,  three  years 
ago.  He  was  still  handsome,  but  in  the  way  that  a  fine 
stallion  is  still  handsome  when  its  withers  and  back  begin 
to  sink.  It  was  as  if  he  were  sinking  in  on  himself — as  if 
the  great  muscles  and  sinews  were  relaxing  like  elastic  that 
has  been  over-used.  Holding  the  candle  closer,  Sophy 
gazed  and  gazed  at  him.  It  was  as  if  she  were  gazing  at  a 
stranger.  There  was  a  fine  spangling  of  sweat  on  his 
broad  forehead;  as  he  breathed  his  lips  puffed  in  and  out. 
They  looked  dry  and  cracked.  He  slept  heavily,  as  though 
his  veins  held  lead,  as  though  his  limbs  were  weighted.  The 
solid  heaviness  of  his  sleep  struck  her  as  appalling.  And, 
suddenly,  what  Olive  had  told  her  rushed  over  her  again. 
Standing  motionless,  her  eyes  took  frightened  scurries 
about  the  room,  over  the  bed,  the  dressing-table,  the  little 
stand  that  supported  the  lamp.  A  glass  and  bottle  that 
had  held  cognac  stood  empty.  She  bent  closer — then  sud 
denly  drew  back  ashamed.  She  was  not  like  Psyche  spying 
on  Love  with  her  candle ;  but  a  woman  gazing  at  defence 
less  sensuality — at  the  degraded  body  that  had  once  housed 
love.  An  immense  pity  came  over  her.  She  felt  that  she 
had  been  guilty  towards  him — guilty  of  staring  at  his  bare 
degradation  with  calm  eyes  while  he  lay  unconscious.  She 
was  not  being  his  wife  but  a  cold  critic.  And  perhaps — 
perhaps,  it  was  only  she  who  could  save  him,  who  could 
restore  to  him  his  real  self. 

Setting  down  her  candle,  she  drew  away  the  obscene  book 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  21 

from  under  his  heavy  hands,  closed  it,  and  laid  it  to  one 
side.  He  did  not  stir  or  mutter.  Then  she  knelt  down 
beside  him,  hiding  her  face  against  the  bed.  She  wished 
to  pray  for  him  and  for  herself.  But  her  thoughts  scat 
tered,  whirled  with  the  coiling  sparkles  against  her  closed 
eyelids. 

' '  Mystery  .  .  .  Mystery  .  .  .  Mystery  ..."  This  word 
kept  beating  through  her  mind.  Yes ;  it  was  all  mysterious 
— pain,  joy,  illness,  health,  goodness,  vice — even  love.  But 
love  was  the  greatest  mystery  of  all.  Whence  did  it  come, 
and  whither  go  ?  Where  was  her  love  for  Cecil  ? 

"Mystery  .  .  .  Mystery  .  .  .  Mystery." 

When  she  reached  her  own  bedroom,  and  found  herself 
once  more  alone,  that  overkeyed,  excited  feeling  came  back 
upon  her.  She  glanced  at  the  bed  with  distaste.  It  was  im 
possible  to  think  of  stretching  her  limbs  out  calmly  and 
resting  her  head  on  a  pillow.  She  went  from  one  window 
to  the  other,  drawing  back  the  curtains.  Her  room  was  a 
corner  one  and  looked  south  and  east.  The  sun  was  now 
rising.  The  whole  lower  heaven  was  covered  by  a  dull-red 
down  of  cloudlets.  It  looked  softly  convex  above  the  quiet 
tops  of  the  trees,  like  the  breast  of  a  vast  bird.  Some 
where,  far  above,  out  of  sight  in  the  pale-grey  vault  of  air, 
she  fancied  its  golden  crest  and  beak,  darting  among  the 
stars,  that  were  as  little,  shining  gnats  to  it.  She  went 
and  glanced  at  her  watch  which  Tilda  had  placed  on  the 
table  beside  her  bed.  A  quarter  to  five.  She  would  wait 
until  a  quarter  past,  then  she  would  ring  up  the  butler  (he, 
at  least,  had  had  a  night's  rest)  and  order  her  horse. 

As  the  sun  rose  higher,  a  thin  white  mist  began  to  coil 
softly  like  steam  among  the  trees  of  Regent's  Park.  At 
five  minutes  to  six  she  was  mounted.  The  brown  gelding 
seemed  as  glad  to  be  abroad  as  she  was.  He  quhirred  with 
pleasure  and  good  spirits  at  every  step.  She  loved  the 
creaking  of  the  saddle,  and  the  massive  satin  of  his  shoul 
ders  as  each  step  sent  the  great  joint  in  rotary  motion,  mak 
ing  a  shining  ripple  along  the  sleek  hide.  She  felt  all  lifted 
up  high  above  the  normal  griefs  and  trials  of  life.  As  she 
galloped  to  and  fro,  she  thought  of  Amaldi,  and  recalled 
her  presentiment  of  something  important  about  to  happen 
to  her  last  evening.  Had  it  happened?  Was  her  meeting 
with  Amaldi  an  important  thing?  Perhaps  his  friendship 
was  to  prove  vital.  He,  too,  had  known  unhappiness — of 


22  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

that  she  was  certain.  She  thought  of  her  fancying  how, 
if  he  were  a  priest,  she  could  confess  anything  to  him.  It 
came  to  her  suddenly  that  it  was  because  he  would  be  sure 
to  understand — even  things  alien  to  his  own  nature. 

She  did  not  see  her  husband  that  day.  He  sent  word 
that  he  had  waked  feeling  badly  and  would  ' '  sleep  it  off. ' ' 
Towards  evening,  when  she  wished  to  go  to  him,  his  man 
told  her  that  he  was  still  sleeping.  She  went  to  bed  herself 
without  seeing  him.  The  next  morning  again  he  sent  word 
that  he  felt  better,  but  would  not  be  up  till  after  luncheon 
and  wished  to  be  left  quiet.  This  made  her  uneasy;  she 
would  have  liked  to  go  to  him  in  spite  of  his  wish,  but  she 
dared  not.  Such  intrusions  only  made  him  furious. 

As  she  had  some  shopping  to  do  for  the  baby,  she  spent 
the  early  afternoon  in  this  manner.  When  she  returned 
and  went  to  her  writing-room,  a  gay  little  apartment  look 
ing  out  on  the  small  garden,  she  found  Cecil  lounging  there 
in  one  of  the  easy-chairs.  As  soon  as  she  glanced  at  him 
she  saw  that  he  had  what  she  called  his  ' '  good ' '  look — that 
is,  his  face  was  quiet  and  rather  pale,  and  his  mouth  and 
eyes  gentle.  He  gave  a  rather  embarrassed  smile  as  she 
entered,  lifting  one  shoulder  slightly  in  a  way  he  had 
when  nervously  self-conscious.  She  knew  that  he  was  re 
pentant  for  the  way  that  he  had  behaved  to  her  on  Thurs 
day  evening,  and  would  tell  her  so. 

She  went  up  to  him,  laid  one  hand  on  his  hair  and  kissed 
his  forehead.  He  put  up  his  hand  and  patted  hers  softly. 

"So  you're  all  right  again?  I'm  so  glad,"  she  said,  tak 
ing  a  chair  in  front  of  him.  "I  was  worried  about  you 
yesterday. ' ' 

"Yes.  I  had  a  devilish  time,"  he  said.  As  he  spoke,  he 
blew  a  cloud  of  cigarette  smoke  that  half  veiled  his  face 
from  her,  and  again  he  smiled  in  that  half-sheepish  way. 
This  smile  always  roused  in  Sophy  a  feeling  mingled  of 
tenderness  and  irritation.  She  sat  watching  him  smoke  for 
a  few  moments  without  saying  anything  more.  He  always 
seemed  to  her  to  smoke  feverishly,  avidly,  as  if  the  cig 
arette  were  a  sort  of  food  and  he  very  hungry.  His  cig 
arettes  were  enormous,  made  to  order  for  him.  He  smoked 
without  a  holder,  down  to  the  very  end.  She  thought  that 
it  must  be  bad  for  him  to  smoke  so  fast,  and  such  quanti 
ties  of  these  huge  cigarettes.  But  she  dared  not  say  any- 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  23 

thing:.  A  word  only  was  sufficient  to  throw  him  from  a 
"good"  mood  into  a  "bad"  one. 

He  broke  the  silence  himself. 

"I  say,  Daphne,"  he  blurted  suddenly.  "I  was  a  beast 
to  you  the  other  night.  Beg  pardon." 

Sophy  looked  at  him  consideringly  without  replying. 
Somehow  this  casual  apology  roused  anew  all  the  feeling  of 
outraged  anger  that  she  had  then  felt.  She  hated,  too,  for 
him  to  call  her  "Daphne"  on  these  occasions.  It  seemed 
such  a  cheap  sentimentality.  He  had  given  her  the  name 
of  "Daphne"  in  their  sweetheart  days,  because  of  that 
book  of  verse  which  she  had  written  at  twenty-one,  and 
which  had  brought  her  a  momentary  fame. 

"Going  to  sulk  a  bit — eh?"  he  now  asked,  with  that  self- 
conscious,  conciliatory  little  grin  of  his. 

"No;  it  isn't  sulkiness, "  said  Sophy.  "I'm  only  won 
dering  how  much  you  really  care  ? ' ' 

"I  care  a  deuce  of  a  lot,  Daphne.     Ton  my  soul  I  do. " 

"And  you  think  such  things  as  you  said  and — and  did 
to  me,  the  other  night,  can  be  made  all  right  by  a  'beg 
pardon'?" 

Chesney  moved  uneasily.  His  eyes  slipped  from  under 
hers.  He  lit  another  cigarette  with  elaborate  care. 

"Look  here,  Daphne,"  he  said  in  a  would-be  bluff,  frank 
tone.  "What  did  I  say  .  .  .  and  do?  You  know  I  get 
confoundedly  blurry  sometimes,  when  one  of  these  beastly 
attacks  is  coming  on." 

"You  really  don't  remember?"  Sophy  asked,  looking  at 
him  keenly.  She  saw  a  slow  red  cloud  his  pale  face. 

"Well  ...  I've  a  hazy  notion  that  I  went  for  Gerald 
.  .  .  about  those  pearls.  Nasty  things!"  he  broke  off 
viciously.  "Mere  pretty  diseases — tumours — you  know  I 
loathe  'em." 

Sophy  had  wondered  many  times  what  had  become  of 
her  pearls  after  he  had  strewn  the  floor  with  them.  She 
said  now: 

"What  have  you  done  with  them,  Cecil?" 

His  shoulder  went  up  crossly. 

"Oh,  they're  safe  enough,"  he  said  grudgingly.  "I'll 
have  'em  strung  over  for  you.  Counted  'em  this  morning. 
They're  all  there.  So  you  haven't  got  that  against  me." 

Sophy  sat  looking  down  at  her  hands,  and  turning  her 
wedding  ring  slowly  round  and  round.  She  had  never 


24  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

thought  that  she  could  come  to  hate  an  inanimate  object  as 
fiercely  as  she  sometimes  hated  her  wedding  ring.  But 
to-day  she  did  not  hate  it.  It  seemed  a  dreary  little  symbol 
of  a  dreary  fact  that  must  be  borne  somehow,  that  was  all. 
Suddenly  she  lifted  her  eyes  to  his. 

"I  don't  harbour  things  'against  you,'  Cecil,"  she  said. 
"The  pearls  were  the  least  of  it  all.  It  was  the  way  you 
spoke  of  Gerald  and  that  .  .  .  that  loathsome  book. ' '  Her 
look  grew  suddenly  impassioned  with  resentment.  "Why 
should  you  wish  to  show  me  such  a  thing  ? ' '  she  asked  very 
low,  and  her  voice  trembled. 

Chesney  was  deeply  embarrassed  again.  He  looked  away 
from  her,  and  that  slow  red  rose  in  his  face. 

"Oh — men  are  hell!"  he  said  thickly.  "You'd  never 
really  understand  a  man,  Sophy.  There  are  abysms  .  .  . 
cess-pools  in  us." 

He  got  up  suddenly  and  flung  himself  on  his  knees  be 
side  her,  hiding  his  face  in  her  lap  like  a  child. 

"Don't  try  to  understand,"  she  heard  him  muttering. 
"Just  try  to  ...  to  forgive." 

There  was  something  at  once  piteous  and  repulsive,  in 
that  huge  figure  crouching  so  humbly  at  her  knee. 

Sophy  felt  a  choking  sensation. 

"Get  up  ...  get  up,  dear,"  she  pleaded.  "I  do  for 
give  you  !  Please,  please  get  up ! " 

"Will  you  kiss  me  then?"  came  the  muttering  voice, 
muffled  by  her  skirts. 

' '  Yes.    Yes,  I  will.    Only  get  up — do,  dear,  do ! " 

He  knelt  up,  and,  flinging  his  arms  around  her,  reached 
his  mouth  thirstily  to  hers.  That  kiss  was  a  deathly  draught 
to  Sophy,  but  pity  made  her  accept  it  without  shrinking 
visibly.  In  her  mind  the  thought  went  round  and  round : 
' '  Mystery — mystery.  What  was  once  like  life  to  me  is  now 
like  death — worse."  Then:  "I  must  be  kind  to  him.  If 
I  am  kind  perhaps  I  can  save  him." 

Chesney  was  fingering  the  folds  of  her  gown  shyly. 

"I  say — what  a  darling  you  look  in  this  frock,  Daphne," 
he  said.  "It  clings  so — shows  your  lovely  Greek  body  so 
beautifully.  What's  it  made  of?" 

"They  call  it  Chudder  Cloth,"  she  said,  smiling. 

Chesney  gasped,  as  if  she  had  sprinkled  water  in  his 
face,  then,  sinking  back  upon  the  floor  at  her  feet,  he  went 
into  fits  of  the  most  immoderate  mirth.  "Oh!  Ah!"  He 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  25 

could  scarcely  get  his  breath.  ' '  Forgive  me,  Sophy !  But 
'Chudder  Cloth' — 'Chudder' — I  never  heard  anything  so 
ludicrous  in  my  life ' 

And  he  rolled  over  on  the  floor,  shaken  from  head  to 
foot  with  preposterous  laughter,  beating  the  carpet  with 
his  hands. 

Sophy  was  used  to  these  outbursts  caused  by  some  espe 
cial,  yet  apparently  trivial,  word.  Sometimes  they  took  the 
form  of  mirth,  as  to-day,  sometimes  that  of  rage.  She  re 
membered  what  Olive  had  told  her.  Her  heart  felt  very 
heavy. 

There  came  a  knock  at  the  door.  Chesney  sprang  to  his 
feet,  scowling  at  the  closed  door. 

"Come  in!"  said  Sophy. 

It  was  William,  with  a  card  on  a  tray. 

"The  Marquis  Amaldi  to  see  you,  madam." 

"Very  well,"  said  Sophy. 

Cecil  lighted  another  of  his  huge  cigarettes. 

"Who's  this foreigner?"  he  asked,  amiably  enough. 

Inwardly  Sophy  contracted  at  the  brutal  adjective  that 
she  detested.  Outwardly  she  was  unmoved. 

"A  friend  of  Count  Varesca's.  I  met  him  at  the  II- 
linghams' — no,  at  the  Ponceforths'  the  other  night." 

"Mh! Well,  so  long.  I'll  make  myself  scarce  for  a 

bit.  Can't  stand  foreigners." 

He  started  towards  a  side  door,  turned,  came  back,  and 
lifting  her  hand  kissed  it  tenderly. 

"You're  a  splendid  thing!"  he  said  very  low.  "I'm 
often  a  beast  to  you — but  I  love  you — always. ' ' 

He  was  gone.  Sophy  stood  looking  after  him  for  some 
seconds,  then  she  lowered  her  eyes  to  Amaldi 's  card,  which 
she  still  held.  She  left  the  room  thinking  .  .  .  think 
ing.  .  .  . 


VI 

WHEN  Sophy  entered  the  drawing-room,  Amaldi  was  stand 
ing  with  his  hands  behind  him,  looking  down  at  a  drawing 
of  herself  that  stood  on  a  table  near  the  fireplace.  The 
drawing  had  been  made  when  she  was  eighteen  by  a  young 
Polish  artist.  It  was  done  in  yellow-and-brown  chalks  and 
had  a  curious  glow — a  look  of  golden  light  about  it.  Ches- 


26  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

ney  disliked  it.  He  pronounced  it  too  "mystical."  The 
truth  was  that  it  revealed  a  side  of  Sophy's  nature  which 
was  forever  inaccessible  to  him. 

As  she  gave  Amaldi  her  hand,  she  said:  "You  were 
looking  at  that  old  drawing.  It 's  a  strange  thing,  isn  't  it  1 " 

"Yes.  Like  'the  shadow  of  a  flame,'"  he  answered. 
Then  as  Sophy  started  and  looked  at  him  inquiringly,  he 
added,  smiling:  "Varesca  told  me  of  your  poems.  I  read 
them  yesterday.  I  won't  bore  you  by  telling  you  how 
beautiful  I  thought  them.  And  the  title — I  wondered  so 
much  how  you  came  to  think  of  that  lovely  title.  That,  in 
itself,  is  a  poem." 

Sophy  blushed  like  a  girl.  She  was  very  sensitive  about 
that  book  of  verse.  Since  she  had  known  more  of  life,  she 
had  often  wondered  at  her  own  naivete  which  had  allowed 
her  to  pour  out  from  her  heart,  as  from  a  cup,  those  in 
most  feelings,  for  any  chance  buyer  to  possess  in  common 
with  her.  The  voice  in  that  little  volume  was  the  voice  of 
one  crying  in  the  wilderness  of  youth ;  now  she  was  a 
woman,  and  she  blushed  for  the  passionate  ignorance  of 
the  girl  she  had  been. 

Amaldi  said  quickly: 

' '  Have  I  been  indiscreet  ?  Perhaps  you  don 't  like  to  talk 
of  your  writing.  Please  forgive  me  if  I've  been  indiscreet." 

"No,  no;  indeed  you  haven't  been,"  she  answered.  "I'm 
very  glad  you  like  my  verses.  Only — well — I  wrote  them 
so  long  ago.  One  changes — I  was  very  young.  ..." 

"And  now,"  said  Amaldi,  smiling,  "you  feel  very  old, 
I  suppose?" 

She  smiled  in  answer. 

"I  certainly  feel  older,"  she  said  lightly. 

Amaldi  was  thinking  how  much  like  a  young  girl  she 
looked,  sitting  there  in  her  plain  white  gown,  with  her 
hands  clasped  about  one  knee.  Having  read  those  impas 
sioned  early  poems,  he  marvelled  at  a  spirit  that  could  be 
at  once  so  fiery  and  so  virginal.  He  felt  sure  that  there 
could  be  no  other  like  her  in  the  world — so  deeply  was  he 
in  love  with  her  already.  But  this  love  was  quite  different 
from  anything  that  he  had  ever  felt  before.  It  had  in  it 
both  mysticism  and  fatality.  It  was  a  desire  of  the  soul 
as  well  as  of  the  body.  He  had  had  "loves"  before — this 
was  Love. 

And  in  Sophy's  mind  was  the  consciousness  of  what 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  27 

Olive  Arundel  had  told  her,  only  the  day  before,  about  the 
tragedy  of  Amaldi 's  life.  It  seemed  that  when  he  was  only 
twenty-three  he  had  made  a  mariage  de  convenance  to 
please  his  father.  He  had  married  his  cousin,  Clelia  Cas- 
telli.  Two  years  afterwards  she  had  been  unfaithful  to 
him.  Amaldi  had  fought  with  her  lover.  Then  husband 
and  wife  had  separated.  There  is  no  divorce  in  Italy. 

Sophy  was  thinking  now:  "When  he  was  twenty-five 
— two  years  younger  than  I  am — he  was  fighting  his  wife 's 
lover  with  a  bare  sword.  He  was  living  out  those  real, 
dreadful  things  when  he  was  a  mere  boy." 

And  she  could  not  help  glancing  curiously  at  his  hand, 
to  which  a  seal  ring  of  sapphire  engraved  with  his  arms 
gave  such  a  foreign  look.  .  .  .  Only  thirty-one,  and  cut  off 
forever  by  the  laws  of  his  country  and  its  religion  from 
family,  from  children.  .  .  .  Yes — that  was  tragic.  That 
was  real  tragedy. 

Amaldi  said  suddenly  in  his  grave  voice: 

"May  I  know  how  you  came  to  call  your  book  The 
Shadow  of  a  Flame?" 

"Yes;  it's  very  simple,"  she  answered.  "I  was  rather 
unhappy.  I  had  stayed  awake  all  night — reading  by 
candle-light.  My  window  looked  to  the  east.  When  the 
sun  rose,  my  candle  was  still  burning.  And  as  I  started 
to  blow  it  out,  I  noticed  that  in  the  sunlight,  its  flame  cast 
a  shadow  on  the  page  of  my  book.  And  it  came  to  me  that 
we  were  all  like  that — like  little  flames  casting  shadows  in 
some  greater  light.  And  that  our  passions  were  also  like 
little  flames  that  cast  shadows — of  sorrow  .  .  .  regret  .  .  . 
despair  .  .  .  weariness.  ..." 

"Yes,"  said  Amaldi,  "yes— it  is  like  that.  ..." 

Something  in  the  timbre  of  her  voice  as  she  said  the 
words,  "sorrow  .  .  .  regret  .  .  .  despair  .  .  .  weariness," 
moved  him  deeply.  He  did  not  dare  to  say  more.  He  was 
not  at  any  time  a  man  of  fluent  speech,  now  his  earnest 
desire  not  to  be  "  indiscreet ' '  in  the  least  degree  made  him 
feel  oddly  dumb. 

Sophy  herself  changed  the  note  of  their  conversation  to 
a  lighter  key. 

' '  Tell  me, ' '  she  said  suddenly, ' '  is  the  home  that  you  care 
for  most  in  the  town  or  in  the  country  ?  I  can 't  help  think 
ing  that  your  real  home  is  in  some  beautiful  country  part 
of  Italy." 


28  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

"Yes,"  he  said,  his  face  lighting.  "On  Lago  Mag- 
giore. ' ' 

' '  Ah !  I  was  sure  of  it !  I  'd  thought  of  Como.  Is  your 
lake  as  beautiful  as  Como?" 

"I  think  it  more  beautiful.  I  believe  you  would  think 
so,  too.  How  I  should  like  to  show  it  to  you — the  Lake  and 
our  old  Tenuta.  We  have  a  dear  old  place.  I  live  there 
most  of  the  time  with  my  mother.  We  are  great  friends, 
my  mother  and  I." 

' '  Ah !  that  is  beautiful ! ' '  she  said  warmly.  ' '  That  is 
what  I  want  my  son  to  feel  for  me  when  he  grows  up." 

Amaldi  winced.  He  had  not  thought  of  her  as  having  a 
child.  It  seemed  to  set  her  still  farther  from  him.  He 
had  for  an  instant  an  almost  overpowering  sense  of  the 
bleakness  of  his  lot.  Like  all  Italians,  he  adored  children. 
He  would  never  have  a  son.  And  now  he  learned  suddenly 
that  she  had  a  son — the  child  of  another  man. 

"Ah,"  he  said  mechanically.  "You  have  a  son?  Is  he 
like  you?" 

"No;  like  himself.  But  some  people  think  that  his  eyes 
are  like  mine.  You  shall  judge  for  yourself.  Only,  please 
don't  be  vexed  if  he  doesn't  go  to  you  at  once.  He's  a 
funny  mouse.  He's  rather  stiff  with  strangers." 

The  butler  here  brought  in  tea,  and  as  Sophy  finished 
pouring  it,  she  turned  suddenly,  exclaiming: 

"I  think  that's  my  boy  coming  in  now!" 

She  sprang  up  and,  crossing  the  room  with  her  light, 
joyous  step,  opened  the  door  before  Amaldi  could  overtake 
her.  When  she  turned  again,  her  little  son  was  in  her 
arms. 

"You  needn't  wait,  Miller, "  she  said,  over  her  shoulder, 
to  the  nurse.  "I'll  send  him  up  to  you  later." 

The  boy  leaned  with  one  arm  about  his  mother's  neck, 
his  slim,  polished  legs,  emerging  from  white  socks,  hanging 
down  against  the  soft  curve  of  her  breast.  His  little  face, 
grave  and  concentrated,  regarded  the  stranger  with  im 
partial  attention. 

Sophy  seated  herself,  slipped  off  his  quaint  hat,  and 
ran  her  hand  over  the  short  dark  red  curls.  It  seemed 
to  Amaldi  that  the  white  hand  quivered  with  ecstasy  over 
the  child's  head  like  a  white  moth  over  a  flower.  The  boy 
was  not  beautiful,  but  he  had  his  mother's  eyes,  though  he 
did  not  look  like  his  mother. 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  29 

' '  This  is  my  little  man  .  .  .  this  is  Bobby, ' '  said  Sophy, 
smiling  from  the  boy  to  Amaldi,  and  sliding  the  child 
from  her  knee  upon  his  feet. 

"You  really  mustn't  mind  if  he  isn't  friendly — he 
doesn't  seem  to  like  many  people — and  none,  just  at  first." 

Amaldi  and  the  boy  were  looking  gravely  at  each  other. 
Suddenly  Amaldi  smiled.  His  face  seemed  to  put  off  a 
certain  delicate  mask  when  he  smiled  like  that.  He  held 
out  his  hand. 

"Will  you  come  and  try  my  stick,  Bobby?"  he  said. 
"It  makes  a  splendid  horse." 

The  boy  pressed  back  hard  against  his  mother's  knee  for 
an  instant,  his  eyes  still  on  Amaldi 's.  They  continued  to 
look  at  each  other  steadily  for  some  seconds.  Then  Bobby 
twisted  around  as  he  leaned  against  Sophy,  looked  up  in 
quiringly  into  her  face,  smiled  suddenly,  showing  his  little 
crimped  teeth,  and,  drawing  himself  erect,  walked  straight 
up  to  Amaldi. 

"Oh!"  said  Sophy  on  a  hushed  breath,  as  when  a  bird 
alights  near  one.  Never  before  had  Bobby  gone  to  a 
stranger.  A  feeling  of  delight  came  over  her.  The  child 
was  ratifying  her  own  instinct  about  Amaldi.  She  looked 
on  with  lips  parted  and  eyes  softly  shining,  while  Bobby, 
leaning  now  against  Amaldi 's  knee,  fingered  the  dark, 
smooth  stick  that  made  "a  splendid  horse."  But  while 
his  small  hands  wandered  over  the  curved  handle,  he  was 
gazing  not  at  the  stick  but  into  Amaldi 's  face. 

Suddenly  he  pushed  the  stick  aside. 

"Take  Bobby, "  he  said. 

Amaldi  lifted  him  upon  his  knee,  and  the  child,  putting 
one  hand  against  the  young  man 's  breast,  continued  gazing 
up  into  his  eyes.  Then  he  said : 

"Stan'  up  ...  Bobby!  stan'  up." 

Amaldi  put  his  hands  about  the  firm  little  body,  and 
raised  it,  so  that  Bobby  stood  like  a  tiny  Rhodian  Apollo, 
with  a  foot  on  either  knee  of  his  new  friend.  For  some 
moments  he  stayed  so,  looking  down  into  Amaldi 's  face 
with  deep  consideration.  Then,  as  if  having  thought 
everything  out  to  his  entire  satisfaction,  he  bent  forward, 
and  set  the  soft,  damp  ring  of  his  small  mouth  against  the 
young  man's  cheek. 

"Bobby  man!"  he  announced.  And  at  once  burst  into 
the  wildest  chuckles,  hugging  Amaldi 's  head  to  him  with 


30  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

both  arms,  springing  in  his  grasp  like  a  bewitched  india- 
rubber  ball — repeating  over  and  over,  "Bobby  man! — 
Bobby  man ! ' ' 

Amaldi  clasped  him  close.  His  dark  face  glowed  with 
pleasure.  All  at  once  it  came  back  to  Sophy  afresh  that 
his  tragic  marriage  had  been  childless.  Her  heart  felt  very 
pitiful  towards  him. 

Here  the  door  opened,  and  Chesney  entered. 

Amaldi  rose  with  Bobby  still  in  his  arms. 

"My  husband — Marchese  Amaldi,"  said  Sophy. 

"How  d'ye  do?"  said  Chesney.  He  was  looking  at 
Bobby.  Then  he  turned  to  Sophy. 

"Isn't  it  rather  late  for  the  little  chap  to  be  down 
stairs?"  he  asked. 

' '  I  was  going  to  send  him  away  in  a  few  moments.  But 
he's  made  such  friends  with  the  Marchese.  Isn't  it  odd? 
Just  look  at  him." 

Chesney  sank  into  an  arm-chair,  and  Amaldi  also  sat 
down,  keeping  the  boy  in  his  arms.  Bobby  had  suddenly 
grown  quite  still.  He  remained  with  his  head  against 
Amaldi 's  breast,  his  thumb  in  his  mouth,  looking  fixedly 
at  his  father.  His  blurs  of  reddish  eyebrow  were  drawn 
together. 

"Little  monkey!  He's  scowling  at  me "  observed 

Chesney,  with  his  short  laugh.  "He's  not  a  filial  character 
— young  Robert,"  he  flung  out  carelessly,  as  though  he 
might  be  addressing  Amaldi,  but  he  did  not  look  at  him ; 
his  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  boy,  and  he  himself  was  scowling 
slightly. 

Sophy  spoke  in  a  low  aside,  meant  only  for  his  ear. 

"Now,  Cecil;  don't  excite  him,  please.  He  doesn't  sleep 
well  when  you  worry  him. ' ' 

Chesney  acted  as  though  he  had  not  heard  her.  He  sat 
erect,  then  leaned  forward,  and  with  his  great  hands  hang 
ing  loose  between  his  knees,  said  in  a  firm  tone:  "Come 
here,  Bobby." 

The  child  did  not  stir.  Then  he  took  his  thumb  from 
his  mouth. 

"No,"  he  said  in  a  clear,  distinct  little  voice.  He  put 
back  his  thumb  and  began  sucking  it  vigorously,  swinging 
one  foot  to  and  fro  in  a  sort  of  accompaniment. 

Sophy  knew  well  this  sign  in  Bobby.  It  meant  flat  re 
bellion  and  rising  temper. 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  31 

"Cecil  .  .  ."she  murmured.    "Cecil  ..." 

He  took  not  the  slightest  notice  of  her. 

"Charmingly  you're  brought  up,  ain't  you  .  .  .  you 
cheeky  little  brat,"  said  he  to  his  son,  in  a  lazy  sort  of 
drawl.  Then  he  barked  it  at  him:  "Come  here  to  me 
when  I  tell  you!" 

Again  Bobby  removed  his  thumb,  and  again  he  said, 
"No,"  clearly  and  firmly. 

Chesney  got  up. 

When  the  child  saw  this,  he  relinquished  his  small  arms 
of  mutiny,  and  flattening  himself  against  Amaldi's  breast, 
clung  to  him,  crying:  "No!  No!  Teep  Bobby — teep 
Bobby." 

Amaldi  was  very  pale.  Sophy  stepped  in  front  of  Ches 
ney.  She  tried  to  take  Bobby  in  her  arms,  but  nervous 
dread  made  him  refuse,  and  he  clung  like  a  burr  to  Amaldi, 
hiding  his  face  in  his  neck,  clutching  with  his  little  hands. 

"Cecil "  said  Sophy  again,  for  he  had  actually  laid 

his  hand  on  her  arm  as  though  to  put  her  from  his  way. 

Amaldi  felt  in  an  impossible  nightmare.  An  icy  rage 
congealed  him.  And  suddenly,  over  the  boy's  head,  the 
eyes  of  the  two  men  met.  Strange  to  say,  Amaldi's  were 
absolutely  expressionless.  Something  in  their  still,  blank 
look  checked  Chesney.  He  stood  a  second  undetermined, 
then  gave  that  self-conscious,  embarrassed  laugh  that 
Sophy  knew  so  well.  It  was  over,  then.  That  especial 
laugh  always  meant  yielding  on  Cecil's  part.  She  turned 
again  to  Bobby,  her  lip  quivering  in  spite  of  her  will. 

"Come,  darling.  .  .  .  Come  to  mother.  ..."  she  whis 
pered. 

Suddenly  the  boy  let  her  take  him.  He  was  trembling 
all  over,  but  scorned  to  cry. 

Amaldi  murmured  a  few  formalities  and  left.  With 
Bobby  close  in  her  arms,  Sophy  went  quickly  past  her  hus 
band  out  of  the  room.  He  made  no  effort  to  detain  her. 


VII 

IT  was  very  hard  to  get  Bobby  to  sleep  that  night.  At 
last,  however,  he  wearily  subsided  against  Sophy's  breast 
and,  thumb  in  mouth,  demanded  "All  a  gees."  This 
meant  the  old  nursery  song  of  "All  the  pretty  little 


32  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

horses."  Obediently  she  began  to  sing  in  her  rich  con 
tralto  that  was  like  the  flutes  and  viols  of  love,  tempered 
to  the  inanity  of  the  nursery  rhyme.  But  though  she  sang 
and  sang,  it  was  after  seven  o'clock  before  the  boy  fell 
fast  asleep.  She  dressed  hurriedly  for  dinner,  slipping 
into  a  tea-gown  of  dull  orange  that  Cecil  particularly  liked. 
She  had  made  up  her  mind  to  talk  to  him  about  his  atti 
tude  towards  Bobby.  She  wished  it  to  be  as  quiet  a  talk 
as  possible,  so  she  put  on  the  orange  tea-gown  to  please 
him,  and  set  in  her  hair  some  tiny,  orange  lilies  that  had 
been  sent  down  from  Dynehurst  that  morning.  He  liked 
her  to  wear  flowers  in  her  hair.  But  though  she  made 
these  preparations,  she  was  quite  determined  to  face  any 
thing  in  the  matter  of  having  "her  say  out"  about  his 
relations  with  the  boy.  She  had  long  realised,  in  silence, 
that  there  was  a  strong  antagonism  between  father  and 
son.  It  seemed  terrible,  but  she  knew  that  such  things 
were.  It  had  been  the  same  between  Cecil  and  his  own 
father.  But  she  would  not  have  the  child  terrorised  and 
herself  treated  with  indignity  because  of  Cecil's  moods. 
No ;  not  even  his  illness  could  make  her  put  up  with  that. 
And  she  thought,  with  a  hot  wave  of  pain  and  shame,  of 
the  scene  that  Amaldi  had  just  witnessed. 

Chesney  came  in  to  dinner,  rather  late  and  very  much 
excited.  He  began  rattling  politics  to  her.  The  damned 
government  was  going  under.  He  'd  give  it  two  more  years. 
Then,  by  Jove !  he  was  going  to  cut  in  and  give  his  Radical 
ism  a  fling!  The  Conservatives  were  pretty  well  played 
out;  they'd  been  in  just  four  years  too  long,  confound 
'em!  'Twas  Kitty  O'Shea  had  saved  the  Union  for  'em. 
and  none  of  those  rotters  in  office.  As  a  clever  Irish  Union 
ist  had  said,  they  ought  to  raise  statues  to  Kitty  O'Shea  all 
over  Ulster — and  so  on  and  so  on. 

Sophy  listened  pleasantly,  putting  in  a  word  every  now 
and  then  to  show  that  she  was  really  attentive.  She  was 
thinking  all  the  time  how  pale  his  face  was,  and  how  dark 
and  excited  his  eyes.  This  last  was  all  the  more  notice 
able,  as  of  late  his  eyes  had  been  so  dull  and  faded  looking. 
Now  the  pupils  almost  covered  the  iris.  And  she  noticed, 
too,  that,  though  he  helped  himself  freely  from  every  dish, 
he  ate  scarcely  anything.  This  made  her  apprehensive. 
He  was  so  much  more  apt  to  be  irritable  when  he  did  not 
eat.  Then  he  suddenly  ordered  a  pint  of  champagne. 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  33 

"Will  you  have  some,  too?"  he  asked  her.  "But  you 
don't  like  it,  do  you?" 

"Sometimes — when  I'm  thirsty.     Not  to-night." 

"And  just  send  another  pint  up  to  my  room,  Parkson. 
I  shall  read  late  to-night,"  he  added,  as  an  explanation  to 
Sophy. 

In  the  drawing-room  after  dinner  he  was  very  restless, 
roaming  to  and  fro,  smoking  those  great  cigarettes,  one 
after  the  other.  He  kept  glancing  at  the  clock.  Sophy 
had  drawn  on  a  pair  of  long  gardening-gloves  and  was 
peeling  the  stems  of  some  roses.  The  butler  had  placed  a 
great  trayful  of  them  on  a  low  table  before  her,  and  as  she 
peeled  the  long,  thorn-armed  stems,  she  arranged  the  roses 
in  a  crystal  vase.  They  kept  for  days  longer  when  stripped 
of  their  outer  rind  in  this  way.  The  tranquil  monotony 
of  her  movements  seemed  to  get  on  Chesney's  nerves. 

"For  God's  sake,"  he  said  finally,  halting  near  her, 
"get  through  with  that  business  and  sing  me  something." 

She  sat  down  at  once  to  the  piano  and  sang  some  of 
Schumann's  Lieder  and  soft,  melancholy  Russian  folk 
songs — the  songs  of  a  people  bowed  immemorially  by  op 
pression — almost  in  love  with  sorrow,  as  a  prisoner  comes 
to  love  his  prison.  She  was  glad  that  he  had  asked  her  to 
sing.  Many  a  time  had  she  played  David  to  his  Saul. 
Music,  her  singing  especially,  always  softened  him.  Now 
it  would  be  easier  to  talk  with  him  of  Bobby. 

When  she  paused,  he  looked  up  at  her  from  the  chair  in 
which  he  had  stretched  himself,  his  head  sunk  moodily 
forward.  "By  God!  You're  a  sweet  woman,"  he  said. 

Sophy  rose,  and,  going  over  to  him,  sat  on  the  arm  of 
the  big  chair. 

"I  want  to  talk  to  you  about  something,  Cecil.  Some 
thing  very  important.  Will  you  be  nice  to  me  ? ' ' 

She  had  yielded  him  her  hand,  and  he  was  looking  at  it 
earnestly,  turning  it  this  way  and  that  in  his  great  fingers, 
which  were  covered  between  the  knuckles  with  a  light  furze 
of  reddish  hair — playing  with  the  rings  that  he  had  given 
her.  Sophy  hated  these  rings,  but  he  insisted  on  her  wear 
ing  them;  he  was  proud  of  their  beauty  on  the  beauty  of 
her  white  hand.  There  were  three,  a  pink  pearl,  an  emer 
ald,  a  ruby. 

As  she  spoke,  he  clutched  the  hand  with  which  he  had 
been  toying  and  looked  up  at  her. 


34  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

"Eh?"  he  said.    "What's  up?" 

"It's  about  you  and  Bobby,  Cecil." 

He  put  her  hand  back  upon  her  knee. 

"Oh,  the  tigress  and  her  cub.    I  see." 

"No,  Cecil,  you  don't  see.  I  don't  want  to  be  disagree 
able.  I  only  want  to  try  to  explain  things  to  you." 

"Your  son's  high  priestess  interpreter?" 

"No,  dear;  just  a  woman  who  understands  babies  better 
than  a  man  could." 

"Well?" 

' '  I  think  the  boy  gets  on  your  nerves,  Cecil,  and 

"He  does.     Cross-grained  little  beggar." 

"Yes,  he  is  cross-grained.  But  harshness  only  makes 
him  worse.  He's  one  of  those  natures  that  can  only  be 
controlled  by  love." 

"Like  yours,  eh?" 

"Exactly." 

Chesney  thrust  his  hands  deep  into  his  pockets  and 
smiled.  It  was  an  ugly,  secretive  smile. 

"What  the  little  monkey  needs  is  a  good  thrashing," 
said  he. 

Sophy  struggled  desperately  to  keep  her  voice  natural. 
Her  heart  was  beginning  to  beat  so  fast  that  she  felt  her 
voice  must  surely  tremble. 

"Ah,  Cecil,  do  be  nice  to  me,"  she  murmured.  "You 
were  so  gentle  and  kind  this  afternoon." 

' '  '  Gentle  and  kind  ! '  Oh,  Lord  ! "  he  went  off  into  a  sort 
of  frenzy  of  smothered  laughter.  "  'Gentle  and  kind' — 

that's  your  ideal  of  manhood — husbandhood Eh? 

What?" 

Sophy  retreated  from  him.  She  remained  standing,  very 
quiet,  very  pale,  her  lips  pressed  together. 

"As  for  being  nice  to  you,"  he  continued  between  his 
chuckles,  ' '  I  thought  it  was  your  offspring  you  wanted  me 
to  be  nice  to." 

Sophy  said  nothing.  She  was  so  angry,  and  so  mortified 
at  her  own  lack  of  self-command  in  allowing  him  to  make 
her  angry,  that  she  was  literally  afraid  to  speak. 

Chesney  got  up  and  lounged  towards  her. 

"Look  here,"  he  said,  putting  his  face  close  to  hers. 
"I'd  like  you  to  realise,  once  for  all,  that  that  boy  is  mine 
as  well  as  yours — at  least  I  hope  he  is ' '  he  interpolated 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  35 

brutally.  "And  what's  more,  if  I  choose  to,  I'll  go  up 
stairs  this  moment  and  thrash  him  in  his  crib ! ' ' 

There  is  no  doubt  of  it.  At  that  moment  Sophy  felt  the 
full  force  of  the  expression  to  have  murder  in  one's  heart. 
In  her  heart  there  was  certainly  murder.  She  felt  herself 
saying  over  and  over  in  thought,  as  to  some  Dark  Power: 
"Let  him  fall  dead.  Let  him  fall  dead.  Before  he  can 
touch  my  son — let  him  fall  dead,  dead." 

"Pfew!  What  eyes!"  said  Chesney,  somewhat  sobered. 
' '  You  look  a  regular  Jael — glowering  at  me  like  that.  ..." 

Sophy's  eyes  blazed  on.  She  felt  them  burning  in  her 
head.  She  said  nothing. 

Suddenly  his  mood  took  another  turn.  He  gave  her  a 
glance  of  would-be  shrewdness,  very  hateful. 

"I'll  tell  you  what's  at  the  bottom  of  all  this,"  he  said 
sullenly.  "It's  that  dirty  little  foreigner  who  was  cod 
dling  the  brat  when  I  came  in  this  afternoon.  You  've  been 
discussing  me  with  him  behind  my  back.  A  pretty— 

"How  dare  you!"  It  came  in  a  slow,  fierce  whisper. 
"How  dare  you!"  she  repeated. 

"All  the  better — if  I'm  mistaken,"  he  retorted,  again 
rather  sobered  for  the  moment. 

"Oh  .  .  ."  Sophy  drew  a  long  breath,  another.  She 
shuddered  convulsively,  then  grew  rigid.  "Oh  ..."  she 
said  finally.  ' '  To  think  I  ever  thought  myself  .  .  .  in  love 
with  you!"  Her  emphasis  on  the  words  "in  love"  was 
sick  with  self-contempt. 

A  ghastly  look  came  over  Chesney 's  face.  It  turned 
grey,  and  moisture  sprang  out  on  his  forehead.  He  col 
lapsed  all  at  once  into  a  chair,  leaning  his  forehead  on  his 
hands. 

"By  God — I'm  an  ill  man "  he  stammered.  Sophy 

stood  an  instant  in  doubt.  He  was  a  great  actor  in  his  way. 
But  that  livid  face  was  not  one  that  could  be  assumed  at 
will.  She  rang  for  help — went  over  to  him. 

"What  is  it?  Do  you  feel  faint?"  she  asked,  in  a  con 
strained  voice.  He  seemed  unable  to  answer.  Parkson 
appeared  in  the  doorway.  "Send  Gaynor  at  once.  Mr. 
Chesney  is  very  ill." 

She  thrust  her  handkerchief  into  the  vase  of  roses,  and 
drawing  his  heavy  head  against  her  shoulder,  moistened  his 
brow  and  temples.  She  felt  somewhat  as  if  she  had  risen 


36  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

from,  the  block,  to  minister  to  the  headsman,  who  had  in 
advertently  wounded  himself  with  his  own  axe. 

Gaynor  came  within  ten  minutes.  He  was  a  small,  quiet 
man,  a  little  older  than  his  master.  He  had  been  in  his 
service  ever  since  Chesney  left  Cambridge,  had  travelled 
with  him,  knew  his  every  idiosyncrasy.  Chesney  would 
have  no  one  but  Gaynor  with  him  during  his  mysterious 
attacks.  Parkson  was  waiting  at  the  door  to  know  if  he 
could  be  of  assistance.  "It's  nothing  serious,  madam,"  the 
valet  assured  Sophy.  "I'll  just  get  the  butler  to  help  me 
to  assist  Mr.  Chesney  upstairs.  He'll  come  round  in  half 
an  hour.  Pray  don 't  worry,  madam. ' '  Gaynor  spoke  very 
prim  and  correct  English,  when  he  did  speak.  He  was 
singularly  taciturn.  Chesney  used  to  boast  that  he  had 
trained  Gaynor  to  be  silent  in  season  and  out  of  season, 
as  some  people  train  a  pet  dog  to  "speak." 

Three-quarters  of  an  hour  later,  as  Sophy  was  sitting 
before  her  dressing-table  while  Tilda  brushed  out  her  long 
hair  for  the  night,  there  came  a  knock  at  the  door.  Tilda 
went  to  answer  it,  and  returned  with  an  envelope  in  her 
hand.  It  was  a  note  from  Chesney,  written  by  himself.  It 
said  that  he  felt  much  better — implored  Sophy  to  come  to 
his  room  before  going  to  bed.  She  gazed  down  at  the 
handwriting,  feeling  mystified.  It  was  strong,  flowing,  and 
abounded  in  eager  flourishes  where  the  pen  had  glided 
from  word  to  word  without  lifting  from  the  paper.  Yet 
she  had  seen  Cecil  only  a  short  while  ago  in  a  state  of  col 
lapse  that  really  alarmed  her. 

"Who  gave  you  this?"  she  said  to  Tilda. 

"Mr.  Gaynor,  m'm. " 

"Very  well.  Tell  Gaynor  to  say  to  Mr.  Chesney  that  I 
will  come  in  a  few  moments. ' ' 


VIII 

WHEN  she  entered  her  husband 's  bedroom,  he  was  already 
in  bed,  lying  propped  up  against  a  heap  of  pillows.  A 
shaded  lamp  burnt  on  a  table  close  by — the  same  lamp  that 
Sophy  had  extinguished  at  five  o'clock  the  other  morning. 
Gaynor  was  folding  some  garments  and  laying  them  away 
in  a  cupboard.  As  soon  as  Sophy  came  in,  he  slipped  out 
in  the  mousey  way  that  she  so  disliked.  She  had  never 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  37 

been  able  to  overcome  her  antipathy  towards  Gaynor. 
Then  she  looked  earnestly  at  Chesney  and  was  startled 
by  the  change  in  him.  His  face  was  slightly  flushed,  but 
looked  gay  and  good-humoured.  He  had  on  pyjamas  of  a 
light,  grey-blue  that  threw  out  the  gold  in  his  fair  hair. 
There  were  books  all  about  him — on  the  bed,  and  on  the 
table.  Writing  materials  were  laid  close  at  hand  on  a 
leather  blotting-pad.  He  smiled,  with  an  almost  childlike, 
ingenuous  expression,  and  held  out  both  hands  to  her. 

Sophy  felt  bewildered.  She  did  not  know  how  to  return 
this  look.  Her  heart  felt  sore  and  outraged,  yet  something 
in  this  eager,  humble  look  of  his  melted  her  against  her 
will.  She  went  up  to  the  bed  and  let  him  take  her  hands. 

"You'll  forgive  a  chap,  won't  you,  eh,  Daphne?"  (Oh, 
if  only  he  wouldn't  call  her  "Daphne"  on  these  occa 
sions!)  "A  rum,  seedy  duffer,  who's  devilish  crusty  at 
times,  but  who  worships  your  shoe-soles ! "  ( So  he  called  it 
being  "crusty" — those  ways  and  words  that  seared  her 
most  intimate  womanhood  like  a  hot  iron ! ) 

"Are  you  really  better?  What  was  it?"  she  said,  evad 
ing  a  direct  answer,  and  trying  to  infuse  extra  kindness 
into  her  voice  to  make  up  for  the  evasion. 

"Oh,  it's  just  the  fag  end  of  that  beastly  jungle  fever  I 
got  in  India.  Gaynor  understands  it  like  a  native.  Gave 
me  some  drops.  Indian  specific  for  the  thing,  you  know. 
So  I  'm  forgiven — eh  ?  It 's  pax  between  us  ? " 

"Yes — pax,"  said  Sophy.  She  felt  very  tired,  and 
turned  as  if  to  draw  up  a  chair,  but  the  big  hands  held 
her  fast. 

"No — no — not  an  inch  away  from  me,  even  for  a  second. 
Sit  here — on  the  bed — close  to  me." 

She  let  him  draw  her  down.  She  could  not  keep  her 
eyes  from  his  face.  There  was  something  in  it — a  strange 
ness.  It  was  Cecil 's  face  and  yet  it  was  not  quite  his  face. 
Or  was  it  his  voice  that  was  strange?  Yes;  there  was 
something  in  his  voice.  It  was  almost  as  though  he  were 
imitating  himself.  She  felt  that  her  own  thoughts  were 
becoming  mixed.  But  the  impression  of  strangeness — of 
something  queer — grew  upon  her.  And  all  at  once,  as  she 
became  accustomed  to  the  shaded  lamp,  she  noticed,  with 
an  odd  little  start  of  the  spirit,  that  his  eyes  were  pale,  and 
dull  again — like  bits  of  glass  that  have  been  rubbed  to 
gether — like  those  pale,  greenish  glass  marbles  that  boys 


38  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

call  "taws."  It  was  doubly  striking — this  change  in  his 
eyes — because  of  the  way  that  they  had  been  over-dark 
and  dilated  only  a  little  while  ago.  His  lips,  too,  she  no 
ticed,  were  very  dry.  As  he  talked  eagerly,  volubly,  he 
kept  sipping  champagne  from  the  glass  that  Gaynor  had 
filled  just  before  leaving  the  room.  Sometimes  his  lips 
stuck  to  his  teeth,  they  were  so  dry.  And  his  upper  lip 
caught  up  for  an  instant  in  this  way,  gave  him  a  peculiar, 
unnatural  look. 

' '  Isn  't  the  medicine  that  Gaynor  gives  you  very  strong  ? ' ' 
she  asked  anxiously.  "Isn't  it  dangerous  to  take  such 
strong  medicine — without  a  doctor's  advice?" 

She  was  so  utterly  ignorant  of  the  effects  of  opium  or 
morphia,  that  she  put  aside  the  things  that  Olive  Arundel 
had  told  her,  as  she  listened  to  his  excited,  garrulous  talk. 
Opium  gave  wonderful  dreams — deep  sleep.  Morphine  was 
used  to  quiet  delirium.  This  could  not  be  the  effect  of 
either  of  those  drugs.  It  seemed  much  more  probable  to 
her  that  what  he  had  said  was  the  simple  truth,  and  that 
Gaynor  had  given  him  some  strong  Oriental  medicine  to 
check  the  effects  of  fever. 

"No — no — nonsense,"  he  cried,  in  answer  to  her  sug 
gestion,  a  fretful  look  crossing  his  forehead.  Then  a  sort 
of  slow  ecstatic  expression  crept  over  his  face.  He  caught 
her  hands  in  his  again. 

"Oh,  the  bliss — the  sheer  bliss  of  relief  from  pain!"  he 
murmured.  "Half  an  hour  ago  I  was  in  hell — quite  so. 
Now  ..."  He  drew  away  one  of  his  hands,  and  spread  it 
out  slowly  at  arm's  length,  smiling  at  it.  It  was  odd  and 
painful  to  see  the  huge  man  thus  reproduce  exactly  the 
gesture  of  a  baby  who  gazes  with  wonder  at  its  own  hand. 

"Now,"  he  went  on,  "my  very  hands  are  happy.  It's 
a  pleasure — a  thrilling  joy  just  to  move  my  fingers — 
quietly,  like  that.  ..." 

' '  You  aren  't  feverish  now,  are  you  ? ' '  asked  Sophy.  She 
put  her  hand  on  his  forehead.  It  was  dry  and  warm,  but 
not  feverish. 

"No — no.  Not  in  the  least,"  he  said,  and  again  that 
fretful  look  crossed  his  face.  But  the  next  instant  he  was 
rambling  on. 

"Yes — bliss  just  to  be — just  to  breathe.  To  stretch  out 
— so."  He  elongated  his  limbs  under  the  bedclothes, 
stretching  luxuriously  like  a  great  cat.  "If  I  were  a  Titan, 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  39 

by  Jove! — I  could  fill  up  space  just  by  stretching  myself 
like  that.  Hum  fancy,  eh  ? "  He  laughed  softly,  and  took 
several  sips  of  champagne — then  lighted  a  cigarette. 

' '  Ought  you  to  smoke  ? ' '  faltered  Sophy.  Somehow,  the 
more  gay  and  garrulous  he  grew,  the  more  depressed  and 
anxious  she  felt.  She  did  not  trust  Gaynor.  What  was 
this  sinisterly  benevolent  medicine  that  could  change  a 
man  from  an  angry,  brutal  invalid,  into  a  huge,  merry 
child  as  it  were,  chirping  at  the  toys  of  fancy? 

''Do  you  know  anything  about  epilepsy,  Sophy?  Bless 
you,  you  darling!  don't  look  so  frightened.  /  haven't  got 
epilepsy — but  there  was  that  Russian  chap — Dostoievsky — 
who  had  it.  He  speaks  of  a  wonderful  moment — a  lumi 
nous  moment  that  comes  just  before  an  attack — before  the 
fit,  you  know.  He  says  you  seem  to  understand  every 
thing,  and  know  everything,  and  be  in  harmony  with  every 
thing — as  if  there  were  no  more  time.  "Well — I  have  not 
only  one  moment  like  that  but  hundreds,  thousands — when 
I'm  as  I  am  now — after  a  collapse  like  that.  By  God! 
It's  worth  the  suffering.  That's  what  Dostoievsky  said. 
He  said  that  moment  was  worth  all  the  rest  of  his  life. 
He  was  right.  .  .  .  Yes,  he  was  right." 

Sophy  took  one  of  his  excited  hands  and  held  it  in  both 
her  own. 

"Cecil — dear  Cecil,"  she  said.  "Please,  for  my  sake — 
consult  a  doctor  about  that  medicine  Gaynor  gives  you. ' ' 

For  a  second — the  merest  flash,  a  look  of  fury  narrowed 
his  eyes.  Then  he  laughed,  gaily,  good-naturedly,  patted 
her  hand. 

"My  good  child,  haven't  you  ever  heard  the  expression 
'crazy  with  joy'?  Well,  I'm  crazy  with  the  joy  of  relief 
from  pain,  that's  all.  Can't  a  chap  babble  a  bit  to  his  own 
wife  without  being  threatened  with  a  doctor?  Come — I 
suppose  I  am  talking  a  bit  too  much.  Tell  me  a  story,  as 
the  children  say — and  I'll  keep  quiet.  By  the  way — talk 
ing  of  children — I  sent  for  you  chiefly  to  tell  you  that  you 
were  right  about  the  boy.  He's  a  devil  of  a  little  indi 
vidual,  that's  all.  I'm  rather  an  individual  myself.  Nat 
urally  we  clash.  Relationship  doesn't  alter  such  things. 
Relationship  is  a  big  farce.  There  aren't  any  true  rela 
tionships  except  those  of  the  spirit.  You're  Queen  of  Bobs 
from  this  time  forward.  There — I  am  forgiven  now, 
ain't  I?" 


40 

"Yes;  truly — from  my  heart,"  said  Sophy,  quite  melted. 
She  put  her  face  down  against  his  hand.  "If  only  ..." 

"If  only  what?" 

"If  only  you  could  always  be  your  true  self — this  self." 

Chesney  said  nothing.  He  was  lighting  another  ciga 
rette — leaning  over  and  holding  it  to  the  lamp  clumsily. 

' '  Oh,  poor  dear !  You  can 't  do  it  that  way ;  here 's  your 
other  hand,"  she  said,  smiling  and  releasing  the  hand  she 
held.  Chesney  closed  his  eyes  for  a  moment.  Dreamily 
he  said: 

"Won't  you  tell  me  that  story?  You  tell  such  lovely 
stories  when  you're  in  the  mood." 

"I  can't  think  of  one  somehow.    You  tell  me  one." 

In  that  thick  dreamy  voice,  his  dry  lips  cleaving  to 
gether  now  and  then,  he  began  to  speak. 

' '  Once  there  was  a  man  who  was  shut  by  his  arch  enemy 
into  a  dark  dungeon.  This  enemy's  name  was  Bios." 
(Sophy  knew  no  Greek,  and  somehow  it  pleased  him  to 
fling  out  to  her  this  clue  to  the  parable  that  he  was  in 
venting,  knowing  that  she  could  not  use  it.)  "Bios  shut 
the  man  up  in  his  foul  dungeon.  But  worse  than  the  dark 
ness  and  the  stone  walls  was  the  legend  of  the  place.  It 
was  told  that  out  of  the  crevices  there  came  a  horrid  Thing 
like  a  winged  scorpion,  with  steely  horns  and  a  sting  of 
living  fire.  And  in  the  darkness  this  Thing  would  dart 
upon  the  prisoner  in  that  dungeon,  and  drive  him  round 
and  round.  By  the  light  of  its  fiery  sting  he  could  see  just 
enough  to  run  from  it  but  not  to  escape.  This  man 
thought :  '  I  will  not  run  from  this  Thing  until  I  die  from 
exhaustion.  I  will  bare  my  breast  to  it  and  die  at  once, 
from  its  sting. '  Pour  me  out  a  bit  more  champagne,  there 's 
a  dear  girl." 

"Did — did  Gaynor  say  that  champagne  was  good  to 
take  with  that  medicine?" 

"Yes — yes" — impatiently.  "Don't  you  want  to  hear 
the  end  of  my  story  ? ' ' 

"Of  course — but — yes,  go  on." 

He  drank  half  a  glass  of  the  wine  at  a  draught,  and 
dropping  the  lighted  cigarette  on  the  bedclothes  seemed 
not  to  notice  it.  Sophy  hastily  brushed  it  upon  the  floor, 
then  lifted  it  and  put  it  in  the  ash-tray.  He  went  on  in 
that  sing-song  way: 

"So  the  man  bared  his  breast.     And  he  felt  the  little 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  41 

sting  go  in — delicately — deliberately "  His  slowly 

modulated  voice  seemed  to  make  her  see  this  fiery  sting 
going  into  the  man's  flesh  in  the  dark.  She  shivered. 

' '  Oh,  finish ! "  she  said.    "  I  don  't.like  this  story,  Cecil. ' ' 

"Wait,"  he  murmured.  "And  as  the  sting  went  into 
his  living  flesh — there  flowed  through  him,  not  death — but 
rapture — rapture — rapture — —  "  His  voice  trailed  off. 
He  seemed  to  have  fallen  suddenly  asleep.  Sophy  hoped 
that  he  had.  It  seemed  to  her  as  if  he  were  a  little  deliri 
ous.  She  started  to  rise  softly — at  once  his  hand  gripped 
her,  holding  her  down.  "I'm  not  asleep,"  he  said.  "I'm 
only  thinking.  I'm  thinking  how  badly  I  told  that  story, 
when  it  is  really  beautiful — quite  beautiful.  But  I  don't 
want  to  talk  any  more." 

She  waited  some  moments — then  said  in  a  soft,  even 
whisper : 

"Asleep,  dear?" 

Only  his  heavy  breathing  answered  her.  She  lifted  her 
hand  from  his  breast,  little  by  little,  turned  down  the  lamp, 
and  stole  from  the  room.  NeutraPtinted  in  face  and  fig 
ure,  quietly  alert,  Gaynor  sat  on  a  chair  outside  the  door. 
He  rose  for  Sophy  to  pass.  For  some  reason,  that  even 
she  herself  could  not  quite  make  out,  she  broke  down  and 
wept  when  she  reached  her  own  room.  Kneeling  beside 
her  bed,  her  face  buried  in  her  pillow,  her  arms  clasping  it, 
she  kept  sobbing:  "Oh,  poor  Cecil!  poor  Cecil!" 


IX 

FOR  a  week  after  this  Chesney  was  much  better,  if  rather 
languid.  He  seemed  in  a  peaceable,  rather  indifferent 
frame  of  mind — that  is,  he  was  apparently  detached  from 
immediate  matters,  such  as  the  life  of  his  little  household, 
which  usually  "got  on  his  nerves."  He  kept  his  room  a 
good  deal,  or  lay  on  the  big,  leather  lounge  in  the  smoking- 
room,  reading  incessantly.  His  interest  in  politics,  how 
ever,  seemed  suddenly  to  have  revived,  and  he  continually 
assured  Sophy  that  the  party  which  had  been  in  power 
since  1886  was  on  its  last  legs,  and  that  the  G.  O.  M.  would 
be  reinstated  as  Prime  Minister  within  two  years.  "If  I 
wasn't  so  handicapped  with  this  rotten  fever,  I'd  throw  off 
my  coat  and  jump  into  the  ring,"  he  kept  telling  her. 


42  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

"With  the  Liberals?"  Sophy  ventured. 

He  scowled,  then  grinned. 

"Do  I  strike  you  as  Conservative?"  he  asked. 

"No — but  your  family " 

"Confound  the  family,"  he  said  cheerfully. 

He  took  up  his  book  again — a  heavy  volume  on  German 
politics,  and  Sophy  sat  watching  him  quietly  as  she  em 
broidered  a  collar  for  Bobby.  She  wished  with  all  her 
heart  that  he  would  "go  in"  actively  for  politics.  She  felt 
that  what  he  needed,  perhaps  most  of  all,  was  some  steady, 
vital  interest  and  occupation.  He  was  only  thirty-three, 
and  she  had  heard  from  many  people  that  much  had  been 
expected  from  him  by  men  whose  opinion  in  such  things 
mattered.  Of  course,  his  mother  was  furious  at  his  Radi 
cal  tendencies  and  called  him  "turncoat"  to  his  face, 
among  other  terms  as  frank  and  equally  harsh.  He  always 
met  this  with  the  secretive  smile  that  so  enraged  her.  At 
twenty-seven  his  brilliant  series  of  articles,  "The  Liberal 
ism  of  a  Tory-Born,"  had  been  much  talked  of.  In  them 
he  showed  originality,  a  singular  grasp  of  matters  for  so 
young  a  man,  and,  in  addition,  that  perhaps  most  valuable 
gift  for  the  man  who  wishes  to  "arrive" — a  tremendous 
power  of  conviction  that  there  is  but  one  side  to  a  question 
— the  side  on  which  he  stands.  He  saw  the  other  side,  of 
course,  but  he  saw  it  as  the  side  of  the  wave  which  breaks — 
as  froth. 

There  were  people,  however,  who  said  that  Cecil  Chesney 
was  "agin'  the  Government"  as  he  was  against  most  facts 
that  happened  to  be  established,  that  they  had  prophesied 
from  the  first  that  his  "staying  power"  was  nil,  and  his 
brilliancy  of  the  unstable,  sky-rockety  sort  that  peters  out 
in  talk  and  scribbling.  Certainly  he  had  made  an  odd 
volte-face,  when  he  whipped  about  at  twenty-eight  and 
went  off  on  that  exploring  expedition  to  Africa. 

Sophy  was  very  ignorant  about  politics.  She  imagined 
that  if  Cecil  only  chose,  he  could  easily  become  a  member 
of  the  House  of  Commons  and  make  a  stir  in  that  august 
and  portly  body.  This  innocent  belief  shows  how  really 
and  sincerely  and  extremely  ignorant  she  was.  But  then 
she  had  had  few  opportunities  of  information.  The  first 
year  of  her  marriage  had  been  spent  chiefly  in  learning 
how  to  adapt  herself  in  some  sort  to  her  eccentric,  pas 
sionate  husband,  to  the  new  characters  and  customs  with 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  43 

which  she  found  herself  surrounded,  to  the  amazing  diffi 
culties  of  her  intercourse  with  Chesney's  family.  Lady 
Wychcote  had  been  hostile  to  her  from  the  first.  But 
Sophy  had  a  gift  of  natural,  fiery  dignity,  which  con 
strained  even  her  imperious  mother-in-law  to  treat  her, 
if  not  with  kindness,  at  least  with  a  certain  measure  of 
outward  respect.  Gerald  was  a  kindly,  quiet,  scholarly 
man  of  thirty-six,  who  cared  nothing  whatever  for  pol 
itics.  His  books  and  the  welfare  of  the  miners  whose 
labour  was  one  of  the  chief  sources  of  the  Wychcote 
riches,  amply  filled  his  time.  It  may  be  imagined  what  a 
severe  thorn  her  eldest  son  proved  in  the  proud  flesh  of  his 
mother.  And  as  her  disappointment  in  Cecil  waxed,  her 
love  for  Gerald  waned.  When  she  realised  that  there  had 
sprung  up  a  quiet  affection  between  him  and  his  young 
sister-in-law — "the  daughter  of  Heth"  as  Lady  Wychcote 
called  her  to  her  own  circle — she  came  near  to  hating  him. 
That  he  had  not  married  and  showed  no  inclination  to 
enter  that  respectable  state  so  incumbent  on  the  heirs  of 
old  titles  and  large  fortunes,  was  like  a  continual  draught 
on  the  smouldering  embers  of  her  grievance  against  him 
for  having  been  born  sickly.  He  had  suffered  from  child 
hood  with  an  obscure  form  of  heart-trouble. 

Sophy 's  second  year  of  marriage  had  brought  Bobby  and 
the  first  serious  symptoms  of  her  husband's  malady.  She 
had  certainly  had  scant  time  for  the  study  of  politics. 
What  little  she  did  know  was  gleaned  from  the  glib,  rat 
tling  talk  of  Olive  Arundel,  who,  as  the  wife  of  an  M.  P., 
had  the  political  patter  at  her  tongue 's  tip. 

So  Sophy  worked  on  the  little  collar  for  Bobby,  and 
dreamed  that  she  was  sitting  behind  the  grating  of  the 
Ladies'  Gallery,  in  the  House  of  Commons,  to  hear  Cecil's 
maiden  speech.  She  had  just  arrived  at  the  pleasant  mo 
ment  when  Mr.  Gladstone,  reinstated  as  premier,  was 
listening,  hand  at  ear,  with  unmistakable  signs  of  surprised 
approval  to  the  eloquence  of  his  new  supporter,  when  Cecil 
himself  destroyed  the  vision.  He  let  the  heavy  German 
book  fall  to  the  floor  with  a  bang  and  said : 

"What's  on  for  this  week  in  the  way  of  society?  Any 
thing  promising?" 

"We've  had  lots  of  invitations,  Cecil,  but  I've  refused 
them,  because  you  weren't  feeling  well." 

He  looked  peevish. 


44  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

"Hang  it  all!  Why  didn't  you  consult  me  before  mak 
ing  such  a  holocaust  as  that?  I'm  feeling  much  more  fit. 
Think  I  'd  like  to  mix  with  pleasant  fools  for  a  time. ' ' 

Sophy  looked  doubtful. 

' '  Don 't  you  think  it 's  too  soon,  Cecil  ?  You  were  awfully 
ill  that  night." 

"Well,  I  didn't  stay  ill,  did  I?" 

"N-no.  You  recovered  wonderfully  quickly.  But  it 
was  that  strong  medicine  that  Gaynor  gave  you."  She 
stopped  stitching  on  the  little  collar,  and  looked  at  him 
earnestly.  ' '  Somehow,  I  am  so  afraid  of  your  taking  that 
medicine,  Cecil." 

"Rubbish!"  he  said  curtly. 

"You  can't  think  how  it  affects  you — 

"How  that  fever  affects  me,  you  mean,  don't  you?" 

Sophy  did  not  like  to  say  too  much.  He  was  frowning, 
and  he  had  been  so  amiable  for  several  days.  She  began 
to  sew  again,  saying  only : 

"Of  course,  I  don't  really  know.    Only — it  worries  me." 

Chesney  got  up. 

"I  think  I'll  go  out  for  a  bit,"  he  said.  "Just  a  turn  in 
the  Park.  It 's  beastly  stuffy  indoors. ' ' 

"Would  you  like  me  to  come  with  you?" 

"You  forget — don't  you?  You  told  me  Olive  Arundel 
was  coming  for  tea." 

"Oh,  so  I  did.    Well  then — but  don't  overtire  yourself." 

He  scowled  frankly  this  time. 

"Confound  it,  Sophy — I  told  you  I  felt  quite  fit."  He 
reached  the  door,  then  turned.  "Mind  you  hold  on  to  the 
next  invitation  that  seems  promising.  I  need  bucking  up 
a  bit.  Mixing  with  my  fellows,  confound  'em!  It  will 
give  me  something  to  vent  my  spleen  on,  if  nothing  else. 
So  long." 

As  it  happened,  Mrs.  Arundel  came  with  an  invitation. 
It  was  for  a  dinner  at  the  House  of  Commons.  She  had 
coaxed  her  Jack  to  give  this  dinner.  Varesca  had  never 
been  to  a  dinner  at  the  House  of  Commons. 

"You  must  come,  Sophy,"  she  said  urgently.  "It's 
going  to  be  bwilliant."  (Whenever  Olive  grew  very  in 
tense  she  missed  her  "r's"  and  this  suited  her  Greuze  type 
charmingly.) 

Sophy  needed  no  urging.    It  seemed  to  her  that  this  was 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  45 

the  very  thing  for  which  Cecil  had  been  wishing.  She 
accepted  for  them  both. 

Olive  leaned  over  and  kissed  her. 

"Oh,  I  am  so  pleased.  And  that  duck  of  an  Amaldi  will 
be  in  the  seventh  heaven." 

Sophy  could  not  help  smiling  at  the  idea  of  the  quiet, 
reserved  Amaldi  being  called  a  "duck." 

"Why  do  you  smile,  Sophy?  Don't  you  like  him?  Va- 
resca  says  he  is  madly  in  love  with  you." 

Sophy  was  annoyed  to  feel  herself  blushing,  for  this 
blush  came  wholly  from  vexation  and  she  knew  that  Olive 
would  interpret  it  otherwise. 

"  It 's  very  stupid  of  Count  Varesca  to  say  such  things, ' ' 
she  said  a  little  haughtily. 

"Oh,  no,  darling! — Attilio  may  be  impulsive — but  he 
isn't  stupid." 

Sophy's  grey  eyes  grew  long  with  laughter.  Olive,  puz 
zled,  demanded  to  know  what  she  could  be  laughing  at. 

"I  think  Attilio  is  such  a  funny  name,  Olive.  Do  you 
really  call  him  Attilio?" 

"Of  course  I  do.  But  I  don't  think  it  is  a  funny  name 
exactly — only  sweetly  quaint.  Besides — there's  positively 
no  shortening  it.  Tilio  is  too  silly,  and  one  couldn't  call  a 
man  '  Tilly ' ...  an  Italian  of  all  things.  Now  could  one  ? ' ' 

Sophy  laughed  and  laughed,  and  Olive,  after  pouting  for 
a  second,  joined  in. 

As  Sophy  thought,  Chesney  was  much  pleased  with  the 
idea  of  this  dinner  at  the  House  of  Commons. 

"It  will  be  mostly  made  up  of  the  Conservative  gang, 
I  suppose,"  he  commented.  "All  the  more  fun  baiting 
them.  I  know  a  thing  or  two  that  will  wring  the  withers 
of  the  Hon.  John — stodgy  duffer!  Thank  God,  his  career 
will  end  in  the  cul-de-sac  of  the  House  of  Lords ! ' ' 

He  began  walking  up  and  down  the  room,  grinning  over 
the  "thing  or  two"  with  which  he  would  "wring  the 
withers"  of  his  host.  Sophy  felt  suddenly  anxious.  Sup 
pose  he  had  one  of  his  outbursts  of  rage  at  that  dinner? 
She  had  forgotten  his  violent  antipathy  to  the  Powers  that 
Were,  when  she  accepted  the  invitation. 

"I  suppose  there'll  be  Liberals,  too,  at  the  dinner,"  she 
ventured  rather  timidly. 


46  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

' '  There  '11  be  one  Liberal  there,  by  Jove ! ' '  said  Chesney, 
and  he  added  a  few  chuckles  to  his  grin. 

As  the  evening  of  the  dinner  drew  near,  Sophy  grew 
more  and  more  apprehensive.  Chesney  was  no  longer  in 
the  amiably  apathetic  mood  that  had  followed  the  first 
days  of  his  recovery  from  his  last  attack.  His  face  had 
taken  on  again  that  waxen  pallor,  and  his  pupils  seemed 
to  her  unnaturally  dilated. 

At  tea-time  an  unfortunate  incident  occurred.  Chesney 
sometimes  had  tea  with  Sophy.  He  would  wait  until  the 
tea  was  frightfully  strong,  then  drink  two  or  three  cups 
of  it,  without  milk  or  sugar.  This  afternoon  they  were 
sitting  together  while  he  drank  what  she  called  his  "tea 
stew,"  when  William  brought  in  a  parcel. 

' '  Fallals  for  to-night  ? ' '  asked  Chesney. 

"No.  I  haven't  bought  anything.  I  can't  think  what 
it  is,"  said  Sophy,  puzzled.  She  fetched  the  little  scissors 
from  her  writing-table  and  cut  the  cord  on  the  parcel.  It 
contained  an  odd  little  boat,  like  the  fishermen's  boats  on 
Lago  Maggiore.  When  it  was  wound  up  the  little  men  in 
it  worked  their  oars.  Amaldi's  card  lay  on  top.  He  had 
written  on  it: 

"For  my  friend  Bobby,  from  his  'man.'  ' 

Chesney  put  down  his  cup,  and  came  over. 

What  the  devil  is  that?"  he  said,  scowling  at  the  toy. 
Then  he  picked  up  Amaldi's  card.  The  blood  rushed  to  his 
face.  "I  call  that  a  confounded  liberty!" 

Sophy  paled.  Amaldi  had  promised  Bobby  this  toy  the 
afternoon  of  his  call.  Then  she  said,  in  as  commonplace 
a  tone  as  she  could  manage : 

"I  see  no  liberty  in  it — only  a  natural  piece  of  kindness. 
Bobby  took  a  great  fancy  to  him.  He  promised  to  send  this 
toy."" 

Chesney  turned  on  her. 

"Throwing  a  nubbin  to  the  calf  to  catch  the  cow,  as  you 
say  in  Virginia,  eh?"  he  said  brutally.  She  flushed  with 
such  crimson  intensity  that  the  tears  sprang  to  her  eyes. 
In  a  ringing  voice  she  cried  out,  as  she  saw  him  eyeing  the 
flush  jeeringly: 

"It's  for  you  .  .  .  for  you,  that  I  am  blushing!" 

Without  another  look  at  him,  she  took  up  the  toy  and 
went  out  of  the  room. 

She  was  so  pale  in  her  gown  of  white  crepe  when  she 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  47 

came  downstairs,  dressed  for  dinner,  that  he  said,  after 
eyeing  her  discontentedly : 

"Good  Lord!  You  look  like  the  family  ghost.  Can't 
you  stick  on  a  bit  of  rouge  ? ' ' 

"No.    I  don 't  like  rouge. ' ' 

His  eyes  fixed  on  the  chaplet  of  ivy  leaves  in  her  shaded 
hair. 

"I  suppose  that  garland  is  to  complete  the  impression 
of  an  Iphigenia  about  to  be  sacrificed,  eh?" 

"Cecil  ..."  she  said  it  earnestly,  impressively.  "Don't 
let 's  quarrel  to-night. ' ' 

"Why  not  to-night  especially?" 

"Because  ..."  her  lip  quivered.  "I've  so  looked  for 
ward  to  being  proud  of  you  to-night." 

He  struggled  against  it,  but  she  had  touched  him.  His 
face  softened.  He  just  brushed  her  shoulder  with  his 
great  hand. 

"You're  a  fine  thing,  by  God!"  he  said,  in  a  husky 
voice. 

They  drove  to  Westminster  in  silence. 


AT  half-past  eight  the  twilight  was  still  clear  and  soft. 
The  women's  bare  shoulders  and  jewelled  heads  gleamed 
charmingly  against  the  dark  sheen  of  the  light-scattered 
river.  Such  of  them  as  were  made  up  for  artificial  light 
looked  as  though  they  had  strayed  from  another  century 
and  forgotten  to  have  their  hair  powdered  also.  Those 
that  were  prettily  painted  reminded  Sophy  of  strange 
orchids  that  would  show  best  by  candle-light.  She  herself 
felt  still  and  listless.  Glancing  at  these  men  and  women 
gathered  together  for  the  evening,  she  saw  as  she  realised 
their  personalities  that  the  occasion  would  be  "bwilliant" 
as  Olive  had  said.  And  she  felt  so  dull — as  though  the 
flame  of  her  spirit  had  died  down  into  pale  smoke. 

Olive  found  the  chance  to  whisper  a  few  words.  Sophy 
had  told  her  frankly  how  ill  Cecil  had  been  only  two  weeks 
before,  and  of  his  renewed  interest  in  present  political 
questions.  She  had  begged  Olive  to  "arrange"  things  a 
little.  She  was  so  afraid  that  he  would  get  excited  if  he 


48  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

found  himself  surrounded  entirely  by  men  who  were  of 
the  Government  or  on  its  side. 

"Poor  dear,"  Olive  now  whispered.  "You're  so  pale. 
I'm  sure  it's  anxiety.  Don't  be  anxious.  I've  put  Cecil 
at  the  uttermost  end  from  Jack.  Poor,  darling  Jack  does 
so  irritate  him  with  his  honest  platitudes.  7  know !  Then 
he'll  have  that  rabid  Radical,  Cunnynham  Smythe,  near  by. 
He'd  have  to  out-Herod  Herod  you  know,  to  fall  foul  of 
Cunny  Smythe.  And  there's  the  Russian  Ambassador, 
Suberov,  opposite.  You  told  me  that  Cecil  read  the  Rus 
sians,  didn't  you?  Well — that  ought  to  be  soothing.  I've 
gathered  all  the  ultra-Tories  at  my  end.  Amaldi's  to  take 
you  in,  and  I  've  put  Oswald  Tyne  on  your  right — two  poets 
together,  you  know.  There's  that  provoking  Sybil  Chas- 
silis — at  least  half  an  hour  late — 

She  went  forward  to  greet  Lady  Chassilis,  and  Amaldi 
carne  up  to  Sophy.  She  saw  her  husband  glance  their  way, 
then  deliberately  turn  his  back  and  begin  talking  to  the 
man  next  him.  Something  in  that  great,  stolid,  well-shaped 
back  struck  Sophy  as  ominous.  She  felt  herself  grow  even 
paler.  Her  very  lips  felt  cold  as  they  rested  on  each  other. 
She  was  filled  with  a  presentiment  of  coming  disaster. 
But,  somehow,  as  she  looked  into  Amaldi's  eyes  and  lis 
tened  to  his  quiet  voice,  a  feeling  of  reassurance  stole  over 
her.  This  feeling  was  wholly  without  reason.  It  was  only 
that  his  mere  presence  seemed  to  give  her  a  feeling  of 
safety,  as  on  that  first  occasion  of  their  meeting. 

"Did  Bobby  approve  of  my  offering?"  he  asked,  notic 
ing  her  extreme  pallor.  He  thought  that  she  looked  even 
more  lovely  pale  like  this. 

"Yes.  It  was  good  of  you.  He  went  to  sleep  with  the 
little  boat  in  his  arms." 

Here  Oswald  Tyne  approached.  He  was  one  of  the  most 
remarkable  characters  of  his  day.  Years  ago,  when  she 
was  a  schoolgirl,  Sophy  had  heard  him  lecture  in  her  own 
country.  He  himself  had  then  been  a  youth  but  just  gradu 
ated  from  Oxford.  She  remembered  him,  a  slender,  poetic 
figure.  Now  he  was  a  heavy,  middle-aged  man.  The  long 
face  had  become  jowled ;  the  light  irises  of  his  eyes  showed 
too  broad  a  crescent  of  white  below  them.  The  sensual, 
heavy-lipped,  good-natured  mouth  seemed  to  weigh  upon 
the  chin,  creasing  it  downward.  He  was  always  delightful 
to  Sophy,  but  she  always  felt  ill-at-ease  with  him.  This 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  49 

feeling  was  obscure  to  her  herself.  She  had  never  tried  to 
analyse  it.  With  the  oddest  contradiction,  at  one  and  the 
same  time  she  admired  his  gifts,  and  felt  a  great  compas 
sion  for  him — the  man.  And  this  compassion  could  not 
have  been  called  forth  by  anything  in  the  circumstances  of 
his  life. 

"Thank  you  for  being  so  pale  to-night,  dear  lady,"  he 
said  in  his  abrupt,  whimsical  way.  ' '  One  gets  so  weary  of 
colour.  How  Iris  must  have  hated  her  rainbow  at  times. 
Our  Englishwomen  are  too  beautifully  tinted.  One  longs 
sometimes  for  the  sight  of  an  albino.  Think  of  an  as 
sembly  of  negroes  and  albinos.  How  austere  and  weird 
at  the  same  time.  Would  you  have  such  an  assembly  gar 
mented  all  in  black  or  white  or  dull  orange?" 

"But  orange  is  a  colour,"  ventured  Sophy,  smiling. 

Tyne  grew  extremely  serious  and  impressive.  ' '  No ;  no ! 
Pardon  me.  Orange  is  only  the  earthly  body  of  light.  I 
think  we  should  dress  our  assembly  in  orange — the  albinos 
in  a  clear  tulip  tint — the  negroes  in  a  fierce  saffron. ' ' 

"Oswald!  what  f wight ful  nonsense  you  talk  at  times!" 
cried  Mrs.  Arundel,  overhearing  this.  "Please  go  and 
take  in  Countess  Hohenfels.  She's  dying  to  hear  you 
talk." 

Tyne  looked  at  her  out  of  his  heavy,  swimming  eyes. 

' '  A  German  ?  You  have  given  me  a  German  for  dinner  ? 
I  see.  You  divined  that  my  mood  would  be  musical.  But 
Germans  have  mathematical  imaginations.  Their  music  is 
the  integral  calculus  of  the  spheres.  It  is " 

Olive  firmly  drew  him  away,  still  pouring  forth  this  flood 
of  easy  nonsense. 

At  table,  Sophy  noticed  that  her  husband  glanced  from 
her  to  Amaldi  once  or  twice.  His  look  was  hard  and  hos 
tile.  She  determined  to  try  to  talk  as  much  as  possible 
with  both  Tyne  and  Amaldi.  This  would  be  easier — as  it 
became  at  once  evident  that  the  dinner  would  be  one  of 
those  delightful  occasions  on  which  little  groups  talk  to 
gether,  even  across  the  table. 

"When  are  you  going  to  make  me  see  another  beautiful 
dawn?"  asked  Tyne  abruptly. 

Sophy  gazed  at  him.  She  wondered  what  was  coming, 
and  as  he  smiled  at  her  in  his  slow  way,  she  thought  how 
much  worse  it  seemed  for  a  poet  to  have  black  teeth  than 
for  a  mere,  ordinary  mortal  like  John  Arundel. 


50  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

"How  did  I  make  you  see  a  beautiful  dawn?"  she  asked, 
knowing  that  he  wanted  her  to  put  the  question. 

"By  writing  your  'Shadow  of  a  Flame'  and  letting  me 
read  it.  Yes — all  night  I  played  with  those  lovely,  nick 
ering  verses." 

"You  are  too  kind  to  me,"  she  said  shyly.  "Tell  me 
when  I  am  to  read  another  of  your  books — that  are  not 
shadows  of  flames,  but  flames  themselves." 

"Lovely — lovely!"  he  murmured.  "That  is  quite  lovely 

of  you.  But  as  for  a  new  book It  is  so  prosaic  to 

publish  a  book  in  London.  Nothing  really  happens.  Now 
in  Paris — why — one  day  all  the  boulevards  blossom  like 
beds  of  daffodils.  You  are  amazed.  You  ask,  'Why  this 
delicious  flowering?'  You  are  answered — 'Paul  Bourget 
has  published  a  new  novel.'  : 

He  went  airily  on  for  some  moments  in  this  strain.  From 
across  the  table,  a  clever  critic  and  man  of  letters  was 
listening  with  pleased  amusement.  Suddenly  he  said : 

"Tell  me,  Oswald,  have  you  ever  read  the  works  of  an 
American  called  Edgar  Saltus?" 

' '  Why  Edgar  Saltus,  like  a  stiletto  from  the  blue  ?  Yes ; 
I  have  read  some  of  his  productions.  But  why  ? ' ' 

"Because  the  American  boulevards  seem  to  blossom  with 
his  flowers  of  rhetoric  in  the  way  that  you  describe.  I  have 
often  wanted  to  parody  him.  But  parody  crouches  at  his 
feet." 

Tyne  held  up  one  of  his  suave,  heavy  hands. 

"Softly,  please,"  he  murmured.  "Tread  softly  there. 
I  have  a  certain  tenderness  for  Mr.  Edgar  Saltus.  I  know 
nothing  in  literature  more  touching  than  the  way  that 
passion  and  grammar  struggle  for  mastery  on  every  one  of 
his  wonderful  pages!" 

Amaldi  listened  with  his  quiet  smile.  He  himself  was  not 
in  a  talkative  mood  that  night.  Besides,  he  was  one  of 
those  men  who,  while  seeming  outwardly  unconscious  of 
what  is  not  directly  in  contact  with  them,  notice  everything 
that  takes  place,  and  he  had  caught  those  dark  looks  cast 
by  Cecil  Chesney  at  Sophy  and  himself.  Now  he  was  glad 
to  see  that  she  was  becoming  diverted  and  roused  from  her 
listlessness  by  the  talk  of  Oswald  Tyne  and  his  friend.  He 
also  observed  that  Chesney,  too,  had  apparently  changed 
his  humour  and  was  engaged  in  an  animated  conversation 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  51 

with  the  men  and  women  nearest  him.  After  a  while,  he 
saw  that  Chesney  was  holding  forth  alone.  But  it  was  evi 
dently  a  perfectly  amiable  harangue,  for  the  others  were 
listening  with  animated  faces.  Still  Sophy,  who  could 
not  catch  the  gist  of  her  husband's  talk,  looked  suddenly 
anxious,  and  Amaldi  was  relieved  when  the  critic,  who  had 
been  talking  with  Tyne,  and  whose  name  was  Ferrars,  said 
to  Sophy : 

"Your  husband's  having  a  brilliant  go  at  Russian  lit 
erature,  Mrs.  Chesney.  Are  you  as  keen  on  that  subject 
as  he  is?" 

"Yes,  quite,  I  think." 

"Tolstoy  and  Dostoievsky  are  our  living  Pillars  of  Her 
cules,"  said  Ferrars,  a  little  didactically.  "They  guard 
the  portals  of  modern  literature.  They  are  our  colossi — 
we  others  fuss  and  potter  about  under  their  huge  limbs 
like  pygmies." 

"Speak  for  yourself,  Charles,"  said  Tyne  coolly.  "I 
may  not  be  a  colossus,  but  I  have  wings.  Gauzy,  iridescent, 
little  vans  maybe,  but  sufficient  to  lift  me.  I  am  not  what 
sportsmen  call  a  'heavyweight'  of  literature — but  I  can 
coruscate,  which  your  colossi  cannot.  And  I  am  not  sure 
that  I  don't  prefer  fireflies  to  eagles." 

' '  Which  do  you  think  greater — Tolstoy  or  Dostoievsky  ? ' ' 
Sophy  slipped  in,  before  Ferrars  could  launch  a  sarcasm. 

"Oh,  Tolstoy,  Tolstoy  ...  by  all  means,"  murmured 
Tyne. 

"Which  do  you  think  greater?"  said  Sophy  to  Amaldi. 

"Well  ..."  Amaldi  reflected  an  instant.  "When  Tol 
stoy  regards  the  human  race,  one  feels  that  he  sees  it  made 
up  of  little  Tolstoys.  When  Dostoievsky  looks  inward — it 
is  as  if  he  saw  all  humanity  in  himself — in  Dostoievsky." 

"Capital!"  cried  Ferrars.  Sophy  looked  at  Amaldi, 
pleased  at  hearing  her  own  conviction  so  well  put  into 
words.  Tyne  regarded  the  young  man  dreamily. 

"How  charming  is  the  multiplicity  of  opinion,"  he  then 
said.  "If  I  ever  sacrificed  it  would  be  to  the  goddess  of 
Variety.  Now  to  me,  Tolstoy  is  by  far  the  greater  figure  of 
the  two." 

Ferrars  had  begun  to  talk  to  the  woman  on  his  right  and 
was  not  listening  any  longer.  The  women  on  the  left  and 
right  of  Tyne  and  Amaldi  were  eagerly  attentive. 


52  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

"Why?"  asked  several  voices  at  once. 

"Because  Tolstoy  is  the  greatest  Immoralist  of  his  time," 
said  Tyne  serenely. 

"  Oh !     Oh  ! "  came  several  voices. 

' '  lie  is  immoral  in  spirit  where  others  are  only  immoral 
in  fact, ' '  continued  the  poet,  quite  unmoved.  ' '  Never  was 
there  so  irreligious,  so  immoral  a  spectacle  as  that  Titan  in 
the  throes  of  religion.  For  this  religion  of  his  violates  and 
thwarts  every  natural  instinct  and  desire  of  his  pagan 
nature.  To  deny  one's  true  nature  is  irreligion.  To  be 
egotistically  selfless  is  the  paradox  of  the  inferno.  Besides, 
is  there  a  greater  sin  against  genius  than  to  worship  the 
commonplace?  Now  virtue  is  the  norm — the  level  con 
vention  invented  by  civilised  man.  The  crime  of  virtuous 
genius  is  that  it  becomes  null.  The  cult  of  virtue  is  the 
eighth  deadly  sin — in  a  creative  mind.  Fancy  a  virtuous 
Creator!" 

He  laughed  suddenly  into  the  faces  which  seemed  not 
to  have  decided  whether  to  look  shocked  or  to  smile. 

Sophy  turned  to  Amaldi.  But  try  as  she  might,  she 
could  not  overcome  the  gene  cast  upon  her  by  those  hostile 
looks  of  her  husband.  She  felt  that  she  was  not  being 
natural  with  Amaldi,  and  the  more  this  feeling  overcame 
her,  the  more  she  felt  it  impossible  to  recover  her  free,  de 
lightful  intercourse  with  him.  They  talked  conventionally, 
gliding  over  the  surface  of  things.  Once,  in  spite  of  her 
self,  her  eyes  strayed  towards  Cecil.  But  he  was  not  look 
ing  at  her.  He  was  leaning  close  to  Lady  Chassilis.  A 
flush  had  come  into  his  face.  His  eyes  glittered.  He 
seemed  to  be  saying  something  delightful  but  rather  shock 
ing,  for  Sybil  Chassilis  gave  him  a  sidelong  flash  out  of  her 
black  eyes — then  flushed  and  cast  them  down,  smiling  in  a 
peculiar  way.  Sophy  noticed  with  a  sinking  heart  that  he 
drank  glass  after  glass  of  champagne.  It  must  indeed  be 
good  wine  for  Cecil  to  drink  so  freely  of  it.  He  usually 
cursed  the  champagne  of  his  friends. 

Suddenly  Tyne  turned  again  to  Sophy. 

"I  have  a  grievance — a  sorrow — a  real  sorrow,"  he  said. 
"I  wonder  if  you  can  console  me?" 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Sophy  in  a  low  voice.  He  seemed 
never  to  be  in  earnest,  yet,  at  that  moment,  the  queer  feel 
ing  of  compassion  that  he  always  excited  in  her,  rose  in 
her  heart. 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  53 

He  drew  a  deep  sigh.  Now  she  was  sure  that  there  was 
a  mocking  light,  far  back  in  his  pale  eyes. 

"It  is  that  no  one  will  believe  in  my  real  wickedness — 
my  beautiful  vileness.  I  have  no  disciple  who  really  be 
lieves  in  me.  Yet  I  am  wonderfully  vile.  Virtue  seems 
like  a  pale,  pock  marked  wench  to  me.  I  feel  like  crying 
out  on  her  like  old  Capulet :  '  Out,  you  tallow-face !  You 
baggage!'  But  Sin,  with  the  clear  black  flames  curled 
about  her  naked  feet  like  the  petals  of  a  lotus — Sin,  with 
her  delicate,  acrid  lips  that  never  satiate  and  are  never 
satiated — her  I  worship !  her  I  serve ! — Do  you  believe 
me?" 

Sophy  sat  gazing  at  him.  Something  strange  and  wild, 
and  unbelievable  took  place  in  her.  She  saw — no,  she 
knew — not  by  ratiocination,  but  as  one  knows  when  one 
falls  into  the  sea  that  one  is  wet — she  knew  that  this  man 
was  truly  vile,  that  he  was  speaking  the  truth  to  her.  But 
even  more  wonderful,  she  knew  that  horror  and  tragedy 
unspeakable  waited  for  him.  It  was  as  if  the  poisonous 
shadow  fell  over  him  as  she  looked — as  if  its  outer  hem 
touched  her  like  a  thing  of  palpable  texture. 

He  was  looking  at  her  strangely,  too — half  as  if  afraid, 
but  curious.  Like  a  man  who  knows  that  the  oracle  can 
divine  truly — that  it  may  answer  to  his  undoing,  and  that, 
if  it  answers  thus,  that  answer  will  surely  come  to  pass. 

"Do  you  believe  me?"  he  said  again,  keeping  up  the 
bravado  of  his  light  tone,  but  some  chord  in  his  voice 
stirred  oddly. 

Sophy  drew  a  long  breath.  She  felt  herself  shivering, 
then,  "Yes,"  she  said  almost  inaudibly.  He  continued  to 
look  at  her — a  strange,  musing  look. 

1 '  Thank  you, ' '  he  said  blandly.  "  So  I  have  a  disciple  at 
last." 

Then  that  passion  of  horror  and  pity  broke  down  all  con 
ventional  restraint  in  Sophy. 

"But  why?"  she  said,  in  a  passionate  whisper.  "Why? 
Whyf" 

He  was  silent  just  for  an  instant's  pressure,  then  he 
answered  by  the  most  extraordinary  and  appalling  piece  of 
blasphemy. 

"Because,"  he  said,  "  'before  Abraham  was  I  am.'  " 


54,  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 


XI 

SOPHY  sat  white  and  still,  her  profile  towards  Amaldi, 
playing  with  the  spray  of  orchids  at  her  plate.  Then,  all 
at  once,  she  realised  that  Cecil  was  speaking  louder  than 
he  had  been.  His  words  reached  her  distinctly.  She 
glanced  towards  him  in  terror.  What  a  horrible  evening! 
What,  what  was  going  to  happen  ? 

What  Chesney  said  was  this: 

"Russia  is  an  epileptic,  like  so  many  of  her  people.  She 
has  the  inspired  moment,  the  convulsion,  the  apathy.  Again 
inspiration — again  convulsions — apathy — e  da  capo — e  da 
capo. ' ' 

As  he  uttered  these  words,  his  eyes  were  fixed  insolently 
on  Prince  Suberov. 

Sophy  saw  several  heads  turn  hastily  in  her  husband's 
direction.  The  faces  of  those  near  him  wore  a  scared 
expression. 

Suberov  was  a  tall,  impassive  man  of  sixty-five,  with  a 
singularly  gentle  face,  and  small,  deep-set,  sad  grey  eyes. 

While  every  one  waited,  scarcely  daring  to  glance  at 
him,  he  replied,  tranquilly  courteous: 

"Yes  .  .  .  my  country  is  called  'Holy  Russia'  by  us  who 
love  her.  Her  sickness  to  us  is  certainly  'the  sacred  sick 
ness.'  ' 

One  felt  relief  stir  like  a  draught  around  the  table.  But 
Chesney  would  not  let  it  go  at  that.  His  eyes  gleamed 
malevolently.  He  thrust  out  his  jaw  in  a  way  that  Sophy 
knew  well. 

"Oui,"  he  said,  in  French,  which  his  execrable  English 
accent  rendered  more  brutal.  "Oui — 'cette  sacree  mala- 
die'!"  His  accent  on  the  word  "sacree1'  made  it  sheer 
insult. 

Suberov  looked  at  him  intently. 

"I  fear  monsieur  is  not  feeling  well  this  evening,"  he 
said  gravely.  "I  have  heard  that  monsieur  has  been  ill. 
Of  course  an  invalid's  opinions  on  sickness  are  always  in 
teresting,  though  not  conclusive." 

For  a  second  it  was  as  though  every  one  at  the  table 
held  his  breath.  A  look  of  fury  crossed  Chesney 's  face; 
then  he  thrust  out  his  chin  with  that  self-conscious,  slightly 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  55 

embarrassed  smile  so  familiar  to  his  wife,  and  cried: 
"Touche,  monsieur,  touchel" 

It  seemed  to  Sophy  that,  at  the  same  moment,  a  very 
pandemonium  of  voices  broke  out  on  every  side.  People 
seemed  saying  anything  that  came  uppermost  in  their 
minds.  Sophy  herself  found  that  she  was  talking  fever 
ishly  to  Amaldi  of  the  little  boat  that  he  had  just  sent 
Bobby,  of  how  she  had  wound  it  up  herself  and  set  it  going 
in  his  bathtub,  of  how  naturally  the  little  men  worked 
their  oars.  She  talked  and  talked — telling  him  anecdotes 
of  Bobby's  funny  ways  and  speeches.  Her  deep,  sweet 
laughter  rang  out  clearly.  Every  one  was  laughing  a  little 
exaggeratedly  over  just  such  trivialities. 

And  Amaldi  took  the  cue  from  her.  He  began  to  talk 
lightly,  in  a  vein  of  real  humour  that  she  had  not  divined 
in  him.  He  told  her  of  the  dry  drollery  of  the  Milanese. 
One  little  story  made  her  laugh  out  like  a  child — quite 
naturally  this  time.  And  so  grateful  was  she  to  Amaldi  for 
helping  her  to  a  rational  screen  for  her  terrible  nervous 
ness,  that  she  began  to  chatter  gaily  to  him,  and  kept  on 
and  on,  not  realising  that  she  was  giving  him  an  undue 
amount  of  her  attention,  and  that,  twice  at  least,  Tyne  had 
tried  in  vain  to  get  her  to  talk  with  him. 

The  bell  rang  for  a  division  in  the  House.  Several  men 
got  up  and  left  the  table  to  vote.  Sophy  glanced  up 
vaguely  a  moment  as  they  went  out,  then  returned  to  her 
light  chatter  with  Amaldi. 

No  one  seemed  to  notice  this  particularly,  or,  if  they 
did  notice  it,  it  was  probable  that  they  understood  only 
too  well  the  nervous  excitement  which  led  her  to  keep  up 
this  gay  rattle  as  if  not  daring  to  pause. 

Tyne  understood  perfectly.  If  he  had  twice  attempted 
to  break  in  on  her  talk  with  Amaldi  it  was  only  because  he 
saw  something  very  dangerous  in  the  glances  which  her 
husband  was  beginning  to  cast  at  her. 

Suddenly  Chesney  leaned  his  arms  on  the  table,  pushing 
the  glasses  to  one  side.  He  thrust  forward  his  face  in  his 
wife's  direction.  It  was  livid.  Moisture  stood  on  his  fore 
head.  His  eyes  burned  black.  The  people  near  him  gazed 
appalled.  It  was  not  so  much  like  a  face  as  like  a  mask  of 
hatred. 

Several  times  Amaldi,  who  also  had  caught  glimpses  of 
this  face,  had  tried  to  let  the  conversation  drop  naturally. 


56  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

Sophy  had  been  talking  steadily  with  him  for  at  least 
fifteen  minutes.  But  it  was  as  if  she  were  afraid  to  stop 
for  a  moment — like  a  nervous  skater  who  knows  that  if 
she  pauses  she  will  fall. 

And  all  at  once  it  happened — the  monstrous — the  incred 
ible  thing. 

What  he  had  thought  that  she  was  saying,  Sophy  could 
never  divine.  Even  long  afterwards  when  she  could  think 
of  it  with  comparative  calmness,  she  could  not  imagine 
what  he  could  have  thought — or  could  she  ever  remember 
what  it  was  that  she  had  really  been  saying.  But  what 
ever  it  was,  as  the  words  came  from  her  smiling  lips,  sud 
denly,  barking  it  out  at  her,  before  that  brilliant  company, 
before  some  of  the  most  famous  men  and  women  of  the  day 
— her  husband  called  down  the  long  table  to  her : 

"You  lie!" 

She  was  so  startled — the  thing  was  so  incredible — that, 
thinking  she  had  not  heard  aright,  she  turned  towards  him 
and  said: 

"What,  Cecil?" 

He  called  again,  distinctly : 

"I  say  you  lied.    What  you  said  just  now  was  a  lie." 

Then,  his  arms  still  on  the  table,  his  shoulders  hunched, 
he  began  sipping  a  fresh  glass  of  wine,  staring  moodily 
before  him,  with  a  sort  of  vacant,  bovine  ferocity  in  his 
fixed  eyes. 

Every  one  has  noticed  how  some  trivial  fact  always  im 
prints  itself  indelibly  on  one's  mind  in  such  ghastly  mo 
ments.  Opposite  Sophy  sat  the  beautiful  Duchess  of 
Maidsdowne.  As  Chesney  shouted  his  insult  at  his  wife, 
the  blood  rushed  in  a  scarlet  wave  to  the  roots  of  the 
Duchess's  chestnut  hair,  and  the  lovely,  violent  crimson 
glowed,  painfully  over-brilliant,  on  her  cheeks  for  the 
rest  of  the  evening.  This  agonised  blush  was  the  one  thing 
that  Sophy  could  ever  clearly  recall  of  the  moments  that 
followed.  All  went  black  about  her  the  next  instant;  then 
her  will  conquered,  and  she  sat  still,  and  conscious,  but  all 
that  she  was  conscious  of  was  that  the  Duchess  of  Maids 
downe  had  blushed  crimson,  and  that  this  crimson  still 
dyed  her  lovely  face.  Sophy  had  heard  that  she  was  con 
sumptive  and  that  she  rouged  to  conceal  her  illness.  Now 
she  kept  thinking,  "No.  She  does  not  rouge.  I  must  re 
member  to  tell  Olive.  She  does  not  rouge  at  all.  What  a 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  57 

wonderful  colour.  And  how  it  rushed  up  to  the  very  edge 
of  her  hair. ' ' 

Next  there  came  over  her  another  strange  feeling  which 
also  every  one  is  familiar  with.  She  felt  that  she  was  in 
one  of  those  dreams,  wherein  one  finds  oneself  on  the 
street  or  in  a  crowded  assembly,  insufficiently  clad,  for 
every  one  to  stare  and  wonder  at. 

Beside  her  sat  Amaldi,  no  paler  than  some  others  at  that 
table,  yet  realising  how  much  worse  than  death  it  is  to 
love  a  woman  whose  husband  insults  her,  and  yet,  for  the 
sake  of  that  very  woman,  to  be  unable  to  avenge  the  insult. 

Before  the  company  could  assume  more  than  a  strained 
semblance  of  naturalness,  those  guests  who  had  gone  out 
to  vote  in  the  division,  returned.  One  of  them,  a  sporting 
member,  a  good-natured  but  typically  John  Bullish  type 
of  M.  P.  and  a  country  neighbour  of  John  Arundel  's,  called 
out  as  he  took  his  seat: 

''Hullo,  John!  What's  gone  wrong  with  your  feast? 
Somebody's  been  throwing  wet  blankets  over  the  table 
cloth." 

He  was  quickly  suppressed.  The  other  men  looked  curi 
ous,  but  having  more  ' '  gumption, ' '  began  talking  common 
places  with  a  commendable  show  of  having  noticed  nothing 
unusual.  Later  on,  Oswald  Tyne  murmured  to  the  Count 
ess  Hohenfels: 

' '  I  have  often  thought  that  the  exquisite  virtue  of  Nero 's 
vice  is  much  underestimated.  Suppose  him  as  presiding 
in  the  present  case,  for  instance.  I  presume  that  the  brute 
over  there  is  regarded  by  many  as  '  a  Christian  gentleman. ' 
Think  how  many  'Christian  gentlemen'  Nero  disposed  of 
by  the  simple  device  of  wrapping  them  in  pitch  and  apply 
ing  fire.  Do  you  not  think  that  this  festival  would  have 
been  much  more  festive  had  it  been  lighted  by  the  Hon. 
Cecil,  as  a  living  torch  ? ' ' 

But  the  Countess  Hohenfels,  although  she  was  not  noted 
for  sensibility,  could  not  rally,  even  to  the  persiflage  of 
Oswald  Tyne. 

When  Arundel  was  apologising  to  Prince  Suberov  after 
dinner,  the  impassive  Russian  said  quietly: 

"I  beg  you  not  to  give  the  matter  another  thought.  The 
young  man  is  evidently  demented.  Our  sympathy  should 
all  be  for  his  wife.  What  a  beautiful,  distinguished  crea 
ture  !  When  all  is  said,  living  is  a  sad  metier!" 


58  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

As  soon  as  the  guests  rose  from  table,  Chesney  left. 
Sophy's  pride  would  not  allow  her  to  go  before  the  usual 
hour  for  such  things.  Every  one  was  charming  to  her — 
almost  too  charming.  At  moments  she  felt  that  she  could 
not  bear  it — that  she  must  scream  frantically,  childishly, 
like  Bobby  when  he  had  had  a  bad  dream — or  throw  herself 
over  the  parapet  into  the  Thames.  But  her  face,  though  it 
had  a  pinched  look,  was  very  quiet. 

Olive  managed  to  whisper  to  her,  once  as  they  stood  close 
together : 

"He's  a  cwuel  biuute  ...  we  must  get  you  out  of  his 
power  somehow." 

"Don't,  Olive  .  .  .  don't  speak  of  it,"  Sophy  had  gasped 
out. 

"Very  well.  But  I'll  be  with  you  first  thing  to-mor 
row." 

' '  Xo  .  .  .  please.    I  must  be  alone.    I  must  think. ' ' 

Olive,  whose  heart  was  sound  though  so  elastic,  under 
stood  perfectly. 

"Very  well,"  she  said  again.  "But  mind  you  send  for 
me  the  first  moment  you  feel  you  need  me." 

1 '  Thanks, ' '  murmured  Sophy.    ' '  Thanks— dear  Olive. ' ' 

Amaldi  did  not  try  to  talk  to  her.  She  was  very  grate 
ful  to  him  for  this.  He  understood  too  well.  These  others 
pitied  but  did  not  understand.  To  have  felt  the  close  con 
tact  of  a  compassion  that  comprehended  was  more  than 
she  could  have  endured.  It  would  have  broken  her  down 
utterly.  But  he  watched  her  from  afar  with  a  quiet  yet 
absorbed  look,  that  was  not  without  meaning  to  Suberov, 
on  whom,  also,  Sophy  had  made  a  deep  and  poignant  im 
pression. 

He  came  near  the  young  man,  and  said  in  Italian  in  his 
sweet,  melancholy  voice,  after  himself  regarding  Sophy 
in  silence  for  a  moment : 

"A  strong  soul — heroic!" 

Amaldi  answered  dreamily,  as  though  it  were  quite  nat 
ural  for  the  old  statesman  to  address  him  in  his  native 
tongue. 

"Yes,  Excellency,  but  souls  like  that  are  made  for  sor 
row." 

"And  sorrow  for  such  souls,"  said  Suberov,  with  his 
mournful,  delicate  smile. 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  59 


XII 

SOPHY  found  herself  in  the  grey,  rainy  dawn,  still  walking 
to  and  fro  in  her  bedroom.  She  had  always  thought  that 
it  was  only  in  books  and  plays  that  people  wrung  their 
hands,  but  now  she  was  twisting  her  fingers  so  hard  to 
gether  that  the  rings  bit  cruelly.  She  stripped  them  off — 
then  stood  gazing  curiously  at  the  finger  where  her  wed 
ding  ring  had  been.  She  felt  that  there  should  be  a  little, 
blistered  band  where  the  poisoned  ring  had  rested. 

Yes — it  was  all  over.  There  could  be  no  compromise — 
no  atonement  this  time.  It  was  over — over.  She  would 
take  her  son  and  go  back  to  her  own  country,  to  her  own 
people.  Nothing,  no  one  could  move  her.  And  she  heard 
again  in  imagination  that  brutal  voice,  shouting:  "You 
lie!" 

She  went  to  a  little  cupboard  and  poured  out  a  dose  of 
sal  volatile.  This  she  drank,  then  leaned  back  for  a  few 
moments  on  the  couch  at  the  foot  of  her  bed. 

A  knock  at  the  door  roused  her.  She  sat  up,  gazing 
about  her,  at  a  loss  for  a  few  seconds.  Then  she  realised. 
She  must  have  slept. 

"Who  is  it?"  she  asked. 

"  It 's  me,  m  'm.    Tilda, ' '  came  the  voice  of  her  little  maid. 

"Wait  a  moment,  Tilda." 

She  sprang  to  the  glass,  smoothed  her  hair — flung  a 
dressing-gown  about  her  shoulders. 

Tilda  stared  when  she  saw  that  white  face,  with  the 
great  dusky  circles  round  the  eyes. 

"0  dear,  m'm,  how  you  do  look!"  she  faltered.  "Are 
you  ill?" 

' '  No.  I  felt  rather  nervous.  It 's  nothing, ' '  Sophy  said 
hurriedly.  ' '  What  o  'clock  is  it  ? " 

"Just  seven,  m'm.  Mr.  Gaynor  sent  me  to  you.  I  was 
against  it,  knowing  that  you'd  been  out  last  night — but 
now  I'm  sure  I'm  thankful  I  did  come.  It's  about  the 
Master,  m  'm.  He 's  very  bad,  Mr.  Gaynor  says.  He  'd  like 
to  speak  with  you,  m'm,  Mr.  Gaynor  would.  But  let  me 
bring  you  a  cup  of  tea  first,  m'm — please." 

"Yes,  bring  me  some  tea.  Tell  Gaynor  I  will  see  him 
after  I  have  had  some  tea." 

Sophy  lay  back  on  the  couch.     Could  it  be  that  Cecil 


60  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

was  going  to  die?  She  thought:  "I  am  quite  honest  with 
myself.  I  don't  try  to  deceive  myself.  I  hope  that  he 
will  die.  Yes — quickly.  But  what  is  curious  is  that  this 
wish  doesn't  shock  me — that  other  part  of  me,  that  doesn't 
exactly  wish  it.  I  can  see  that  it  would  be  right  not  to 
wish  it,  but  I  do  wish  it." 

Tilda  came  back  with  the  tea  in  a  few  moments.  The 
strong  stimulant  brought  some  colour  to  Sophy's  lips — 
steadied  her.  When  she  had  drunk  it,  she  said: 

"Now  send  Gaynor  to  me." 

Gaynor  was  at  the  door  within  two  moments.  Tilda  held 
it  open  for  him  rather  grudgingly.  She  thought  that  her 
lady's  indisposition  was  of  far  graver  import  than  that  of 
Gaynor 's  master. 

"Shut  the  door,  Tilda — and  don't  come  back  until  I 
ring,"  said  Sophy.  "I  wish  to  speak  to  Gaynor  alone." 

The  man  stood  near  the  door,  waiting. 

"Is  Mr.  Chesney  ill  again?"  asked  Sophy. 

"Very  ill,  indeed,  madam — in  my  opinion." 

"Dangerously?" 

"I  can't  say,  madam.  I  think  it  will  be  dangerous  if  it's 
allowed  to  go  on." 

"How  do  you  mean  'allowed  to  go  on'?" 

"If  a  doctor  isn't  consulted,  madam." 

"But  you  know  Mr.  Chesney 's  dislike  of  doctors." 

' '  Yes,  madam ;  but  in  this  instance  it  seemed  to  me  that 
it  would  be  better  not  to  regard  it." 

"Does  Mr.  Chesney  himself  wish  it?" 

"Mr.  Chesney  is  unconscious,  madam." 

Sophy  sat  up,  supporting  herself  by  one  arm  along  the 
back  of  the  couch.  Her  great,  dark,  passionately  tired 
eyes,  and  the  small,  composed,  neutral-tinted  eyes  of  the 
valet  met  in  a  look  of  questioning  on  her  part,  of  quiet  but 
noncommittal  decision  on  his. 

' '  Unconscious  ?     How  ?     A  heavy  sleep  ? ' ' 

* '  No,  madam ;  more  a  state  of  syncope,  I  should  say. ' ' 

"Since  when?" 

"He  sank  into  it  about  six  o'clock  this  morning.  He 
was  very  bad  last  night,  madam — delirious.  I  had  some 
difficulty  in  quieting  him." 

Sophy  looked  at  him  steadily,  in  silence.     Then  she  said : 

"Did  you  give  him  some  of  that  strong  medicine  you  use 
— that  Indian  medicine?" 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  61 

"Yes,  madam." 

"Don't  you  think  that  might  have  thrown  him  into  this 
state?" 

' '  I  think  not,  madam. ' ' 

Sophy  was  silent  for  another  moment,  looking  down  at 
her  ringless  hands  which  she  had  clasped  tightly  together 
again.  Then  she  looked  up  at  Gaynor.  His  face  was  as 
noncommittal  as  that  of  a  diplomatist  negotiating  a  difficult 
matter.  Yet  she  saw  knowledge  in  that  face,  a  possession 
of  facts  that  was  hidden  from  her. 

"What  sort  of  doctor  do  you  think  should  be  called  in? 
A  specialist?" 

' '  That  would  seem  best,  madam. ' ' 

"What  kind  of  specialist?" 

"A  nerve-specialist,  I  should  think,  madam." 

Sophy  continued  to  look  at  him  curiously.  At  last  she 
said: 

"You  know,  Gaynor,  if  Mr.  Chesney  were  to  find  out 
that  you  had  proposed  this  it  would  probably  cost  you  your 
place?" 

"That  must  be  as  it  may  be,  madam." 

"You  are  greatly  attached  to  Mr.  Chesney,  are  you 
not?" 

"I  have  served  Mr.  Chesney  for  ten  years,  madam." 

Gaynor 's  face  was  as  impassive  as  ever.  He  was  evi 
dently  not  an  emotional  character.  Sophy  looked  down 
again  at  her  knitted  fingers;  then  she  said: 

"Have  you  thought  of  any  especial  doctor?" 

"Doctor  Algernon  Carfew  is  considered  an  excellent 
nerve-specialist,  madam.  I  believe  he  studied  in  the  States 
with  Doctor  Weir  Mitchell. ' ' 

So  Gaynor  had  thought  very  carefully  and  seriously  on 
this  subject,  long  before  the  present  moment ! 

Sophy  gazed  at  him  keenly  again.  What  important 
knowledge  lay  locked  in  that  narrow  chest,  of  which  the 
key  would  not  be  given  her,  she  felt  sure?  And  an  un 
willing  conviction  seized  her:  there  must  be  something 
fundamentally  fine  in  Cecil  to  make  a  servant  so  loyal  to 
him. 

She  leaned  back  wearily  again  on  the  cushions. 

"1  must  think  this  over  very  carefully,  Gaynor.  It  will 
be  a  very  serious  matter  to  violate  Mr.  Chesney 's  wishes  in 
this  way. ' ' 


62  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

"Yes,  madam." 

"How  long  do  you  think  that  we  can  safely  wait  before 
calling  in  a  physician?" 

She  coupled  herself  and  Gaynor  together  unconsciously 
in  this  "we,"  because  there  was  no  one  else  in  all  England 
that  she  felt  she  could  consult  with  on  this  subject. 

"There  is  no  immediate  danger,  madam.  I  have  given 
Mr.  Chesney  a  hypodermic  of  nitro-glycerine.  Within  the 
next  two  or  three  hours  will  be  time  enough,  I  should  say. ' ' 

Somehow  this  word  "hypodermic"  frightened  Sophy. 
She  started  erect  again,  her  hand  grasping  the  back  of  the 
couch  as  before. 

"Is  that  the  strong  medicine  that  you  always  give  him? 
"Why  did  you  give  it  to  him  that  way?  Can't  he  swal 
low?" 

"He  is  quite  unconscious,  madam.  Nitro-glycerine  is  a 
powerful  heart-tonic.  The  heart  action  was  very  bad.  But 
it  is  better  now,  madam." 

These  "madams"  of  the  valet  were  beginning  to  fret 
Sophy  cruelly.  They  were  like  the  toc-toc  of  a  sort  of 
irregular  metronome,  beating  out  of  time  to  the  jangled 
clamour  of  her  thoughts.  They  seemed  almost  like  a  re 
spectful  mockery  of  her  hesitation.  But  she  only  hesi 
tated  because  of  the  violent  hatred  with  which  Chesney 
always  mentioned  physicians  of  any  kind.  He  had  said 
not  once,  but  on  many  different  occasions,  words  of  this 
description : 

"By  God!  The  unpardonable  sin  against  me  would  be 
the  foisting  on  me  one  of  those  damned  fakirs  when  I  was 
helpless  and  couldn't  throttle  him.  The  mother  that  bore 
me  couldn't  hand  me  over  to  a  medical  ghoul  with  im 
punity.  So  remember — no  doctors!  I  die  or  I  live — but 
no  doctors!" 

Then  all  at  once  her  mind  seemed  to  open  like  a  book 
that  has  been  closed,  and  opens  of  itself  at  a  certain  page. 
On  this  page  of  her  suddenly  opened  mind  Sophy  read  as 
in  a  neat,  short  sentence:  "This  man  thinks  it  very  pe 
culiar  that  you  do  not  ask  to  see  your  husband." 

She  got  to  her  feet,  drawing  the  folds  of  her  dressing- 
gown  about  her. 

"I  wish  to  see  Mr.  Chesney,"  she  said,  in  measured, 
stilted  tones. 

"Very  good,  madam." 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  63 

He  held  the  door  open  for  her  to  pass  through,  then 
closed  it  noiselessly,  and  followed  her  with  soundless  foot 
steps  along  the  corridor. 

The  shutters  of  Chesney's  room,  were  closed,  but  the  cur 
tains  were  not  drawn.  A  night-light  burnt  behind  a 
screen.  Sophy  went  to  the  foot  of  the  bed  and  stood  look 
ing  down  on  her  husband.  In  the  moderate  light  she  saw 
his  face,  bluish  and  dusky  against  the  white  pillow.  He 
was  breathing  harshly  but  regularly.  His  lips — those  lips 
which  she  had  last  seen  framing  a  deadly  insult — were 
parted,  and  seemed  as  though  pasted  against  his  teeth. 

She  commanded  herself,  and  moving  round  to  the  side  of 
the  bed,  leaned  over  and  put  her  hand  on  his  forehead.  It 
was  dry,  like  rough  paper,  and  very  hot. 

What  she  felt  as  she  bent  over  him  she  could  not  tell. 
Perhaps  more  than  anything  that  though  he  was  so  huge 
and  fierce  a  man,  he  had  now  only  herself  and  a  valet  to 
help  him  in  his  helplessness. 

She  stood  thus  a  moment,  then  left  the  room,  beckoning 
Gaynor  to  follow  her.  When  they  were  outside,  she  said : 

"What  is  this  Doctor  Carfew's  address?" 

He  gave  it  to  her. 

She  pondered  a  moment. 

"Very  well,"  she  then  said.  "I  shall  dress  and  go  to 
see  him.  Would  you  like  me  to  get  a  nurse  to  assist  you?" 

"If  I  might  venture,  madam,"  said  the  man  discreetly, 
* '  it  would  be  better  perhaps  to  hear  first  what  Doctor  Car- 
few  says.  He  may  wish  a  nurse  of  his  own." 

"Yes.  That  is  true.  Tell  Parkson  to  call  me  a  cab  in 
half  an  hour. ' ' 

She  put  on  a  dark-blue  linen  frock  and  a  little  toque  of 
black  straw. 

"Give  me  my  long  grey  veil,  Tilda,"  she  said.  As  the 
girl  was  winding  it  about  her  hat,  she  asked: 

' '  Haven 't  you  a  friend  who 's  a  Catholic,  Tilda  ? ' ' 

"Yes,  m'm — Maria  Tonks.  A  very  good  girl,  though  a 
Papist,  m'm." 

' '  And  what  did  you  say  was  the  name  of  the  priest  who 
converted  her?" 

"Father  Raphael  of  the  Poor,  m'm.  But  he  didn't  con 
vert  her  exactly,  m'm,  if  I  may  say  so.  She  just  took  such 
a  fancy  to  'im,  his  bein'  so  kind  to  her  w'en  in  distress,  m'm 
— as  she  went  and  became  a  Catholic." 


64  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

' '  I  see.     lie  is  very  good  to  the  poor,  isn  't  he  ? " 

' '  So  they  say,  m  'm.  lie  gets  his  name  from  that.  Any 
body  'as  only  to  be  unfortunate  to  find  welcome  with  him 
— so  Maria  says. ' ' 

"Yes  .  .  .  Yes  ..."  said  Sophy  absently.  Then 
added :  ' '  Where  does  he  live  ? ' ' 

Tilda  mentioned  the  address. 

Sophy  thanked  her  mechanically  and  went  out. 


XIII 

DR.  CARFEW  lived  in  Hanover  Square.  It  seemed  a  cruelly 
short  way  there  to  Sophy,  for  the  motion  of  the  cab,  the 
rolling  forward  into  the  fine,  calm  rain  soothed  her.  The 
cabby  wanted  to  lower  the  glass,  but  she  would  not  have  it. 
The  rain  was  only  a  thick  drizzle.  She  put  up  her  veil, 
and  let  the  beaded  moisture  beat  in  upon  her  face.  How 
lovely  were  the  London  plane  trees  against  the  varied  grey 
.  .  .  and  how  she  hated  them,  and  all  that  was  England — 
England  from  whence  had  come  her  unspeakable  humilia 
tion  and  misery! 

But  the  next  moment,  with  the  soft  homeliness  of  the  air 
upon  her  cheek,  came  the  realisation  that  she  could  not 
hate  the  land  over  which  it  breathed.  It  was  in  her  blood 
as  a  Virginian  to  love  England.  It  was  only  disfigured  for 
her  as  a  friend  may  be  disfigured  by  a  cruel  accident,  yet 
remain  dear  as  ever.  But  though  she  loved  England — she 
was  homesick — homesick.  She  yearned  for  the  foothills  of 
the  Blue  Ridge  as  Pilgrim  yearned  for  the  Delectable 
Mountains.  During  the  short  drive  to  Hanover  Square, 
she  was  conscious  only  of  this  gnawing  nostalgia  and  the 
undercurrent  of  determination  to  return  to  her  own  land 
as  soon  as  possible.  The  old  place,  Sweet-Waters,  had 
been  left  equally  to  her  and  Charlotte.  Now,  Charlotte 
and  her  husband,  Judge  Macon,  lived  there,  at  her  request, 
but  the  house  was  large  and  rambling — there  would  be 
room  for  her  and  Bobby — her  thousand  dollars  a  year 
would  keep  her  from  being  an  expense  to  them.  Joe  was 
fond  of  her — he  would  not  mind  having  her  live  with 
them.  .  .  . 

The  cab  stopped.  She  got  out  and  stood  face  to  face 
with  the  house  of  the  great  specialist.  It  seemed  to  regard 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  65 

her  superciliously,  with  a  look  of  hard,  callous  reticence. 
Architecture  has  its  misanthropes  as  well  as  humanity. 
This  was  a  forbidding  house;  it  seemed  built  to  hold  im 
partial  dooms  and  the  gloomy  prosperity  that  gains  by  the 
pain  of  others.  She  could  not  think  of  healing  as  going 
forth  of  that  house.  Yet  Dr.  Carfew  had  saved  many.  It 
was  only  Sophy's  dark  mood  that  thus  interpreted  to  her 
the  expression  of  the  great  physician's  house. 

She  went  quietly  up  the  steps,  after  her  short  pause,  and 
rang  the  bell. 

Dr.  Carfew  was  out  of  town — would  not  be  back  until 
noon.  Sophy  thought  a  moment. 

' '  I  will  come  in  and  write  a  note, ' '  she  said. 

The  man  led  her  into  a  gloomy  room,  and  set  writing 
materials  to  her  hand. 

"Give  this  to  Doctor  Carfew  the  instant  that  he  re 
turns,"  she  said  to  the  man,  handing  him  the  sealed  en 
velope.  "It  is  a  matter  of  life  and  death." 

The  sound  of  her  own  voice  saying  this  struck  her 
strangely.  The  "life  and  death"  that  she  had  spoken  of 
meant  the  life  and  death  of  Cecil.  She  still  hoped  that  he 
would  die.  She  did  not  exactly  hate  him — but  she  hoped 
that  he  would  die. 

She  gave  the  cabman  the  address  of  Father  Raphael  of 
the  Poor.  As  they  trotted  on,  she  began  to  wonder  what 
Father  Raphael  of  the  Poor  would  be  like.  Was  he  old — 
young?  She  stiffened  suddenly,  as  she  sat  there  all  alone 
in  the  musty  cab.  No — she  could  not  talk  of  such  matters 
with  a  young  man.  She  could  not  risk  so  much  as  that — 
the  ordeal  of  finding  that  the  priest  was  young.  But  then 
— she  must  speak  out  to  some  one — some  one  who  did  not 
know  her — some  one  quite  removed  from  such  a  life  as 
hers.  Yes — now  she  understood  the  power  of  the  Confes 
sional  in  the  Romish  church.  To  kneel  before  a  little  grat 
ing  and,  unseen,  whisper  out  one 's  agonies  and  perplexities 
to  another,  also  invisible.  ...  To  speak  without  identity  to 
one  also  without  identity — that  must  be  a  marvellous 
solace.  To  believers  it  must  be  almost  like  having  God 
answer  them,  thus  to  receive  advice  and  consolation,  as  it 
were,  out  of  the  void. 

They  crossed  the  river,  and  after  twenty  minutes  entered 
the  street  where  was  the  Chapel  of  Mary  of  Compassion. 
Sophy  felt  herself  advancing  into  the  perspective  of  this 


66  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

hideous  street  with  a  shudder.  It  was  as  if  she  were  being 
willingly  driven  into  a  wedge  of  gloomy  brick  from  which 
somehow  she  would  not  be  able  to  withdraw.  On  each  side 
squatted  the  low  houses,  odiously  alike.  The  toy-bricks  of  a 
gaoler's  child  must  be  fashioned  like  these  houses.  A  smell 
of  hot  tallow  and  refuse  was  in  the  air,  mingled  with  that 
omnipresent  scent  of  malt  that  was  here  stronger  and  more 
sweetish  acrid  than  ever. 

The  chapel  itself  was  not  very  different  from  the  other 
houses.  It  seemed  like  one  of  a  large  family  that  has  been 
better  nourished  and  dedicated  to  religion.  The  shape  of 
its  roof  and  doorway  was  the  equivalent  of  a  priestly 
habit. 

Sophy's  heart  failed  within  her.  Somehow  this  street, 
this  chapel,  seemed  reality — all  else  illusion. 

Then  she  entered.  The  little  chapel  was  empty  and 
very  still.  There  was  a  smell  of  stale  incense  in  the  air. 
She  could  see  the  high  altar,  very  simple.  A  man  was  kneel 
ing  before  it.  He  rose  as  Sophy  entered,  and  came  towards 
her.  He  was  a  tall  man,  clad  in  a  plain  black  soutane.  He 
came  and  stood  near,  looking  at  her  gravely. 

''What  can  I  do  for  you?"  he  asked. 

"I  would  like  ..."  faltered  Sophy.  "...  If  I  might 
speak  with  Father  Eaphael  of  the  Poor  .  .  .  ? "  she  ended. 

"I  am  Father  Raphael,"  he  said.  He  had  a  beautiful, 
deep,  tranquil  voice.  Sophy's  mind  was  beginning  to  be 
confused.  All  sorts  of  fantasies  whirled  through  it.  She 
imagined  that  this  voice  indicated  a  tragedy  far  back  in 
the  priest's  life.  That  he  had  suffered  in  some  deeply 
human  way.  The  church  was  dim.  She  could  not  see  his 
face  clearly,  but  his  hair  shone  out  almost  white  from  the 
shadows.  His  eyebrows  were  thick  and  black. 

"I  am  Father  Raphael,"  he  said  again.  "Will  you 
come  this  way  with  me,  my  daughter?" 

He  thought  her  a  Catholic,  of  course ;  but  at  the  words, 
"my  daughter,"  spoken  in  that  lovely  voice,  it  seemed  to 
Sophy  that  a  band  snapped  about  her  heart,  releasing  it. 
It  was  as  if  some  benign,  paternal  angel  had  troubled  the 
pool  of  tears,  far  down  among  the  very  roots  of  her  being. 

She  followed  him  silently,  and  from  her  eyes  there  welled 
great,  slow  drops — hot  and  heavy,  like  drops  of  blood  from 
the  inmost  core  of  her  heart. 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  67 


XIV 

THE  room  into  which  Father  Raphael  led  her  was  very 
bare.  There  was  a  clock  on  the  deal  mantelpiece,  some 
plain  rush-seated  deal  chairs  stained  brown,  a  deal  table 
covered  with  a  cheap  cloth  stamped  in  red  and  black.  On 
a  little  shrine  in  one  corner  stood  a  plaster  statue  of  the 
Virgin  as  the  Mater  Misericordise,  with  her  hands  extended 
in  compassion.  A  nosegay  of  white  geraniums  in  a  thick 
glass  was  placed  before  it. 

The  priest  sat  down  on  one  side  of  the  table,  and  mo 
tioned  Sophy  to  a  chair  opposite.  He  waited,  looking  away 
from  her  out  of  the  small  window  that  framed  a  hideous 
"back  yard,"  until  she  had  somewhat  mastered  herself. 
Then  he  said  in  his  tranquil,  tender  voice : 

"Do  not  be  afraid  to  speak,  my  daughter.  This  place  is 
sacred  to  The  Mother  who  suffered  most.  Where  there  has 
been  most  suffering,  there  is  most  understanding. ' ' 

Sophy  lifted  her  eyes  to  his. 

"I  ought  to  tell  you,  Father,  that  I  am  not  a  Roman 
Catholic,"  she  said,  under  her  breath.  The  grave  cor 
diality  of  his  look  did  not  abate. 

"All  who  are  in  trouble  are  welcome  here,"  he  said 
gently.  But  she  noticed  that  after  that  he  said  "My 
child,"  when  speaking  to  her,  instead  of  "My  daughter." 

Then,  little  by  little,  she  told  him  everything.  When 
she  had  ended,  he  sat  for  some  moments,  musing.  He  had 
a  plain,  rugged  face,  but  the  eyes,  clear  and  brown,  held  an 
expression  of  the  most  exquisite  comprehension  and  love — 
that  love  which  is  so  wholly  of  the  spirit  yet  so  warm  to 
wards  the  sorrows  and  needs  of  humanity  that,  feeling  its 
power,  one  can  realise  how,  after  'looking  into  eyes  like 
these  yet  far  more  wonderful,  the  great  golden  Harlot  of 
Magdala  cast  away  her  lovers  and  her  jewels,  and  spread 
her  beautiful  hair  as  a  serving-cloth  about  the  sacred  feet 
her  tears  had  washed. 

"It  is  true,  my  child,"  said  Father  Raphael  at  last,  and 
he  smiled  tenderly  upon  her,  "that  the  human  heart  is 
deceitful  above  all  things  and  desperately  wicked — and 
sometimes  it  deceives  even  in  regard  to  its  own  wicked 
ness.  Your  heart  has  deceived  you,  my  child." 


68  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

"How?"  asked  Sophy,  in  a  low  voice.  An  inward 
tremor  had  seized  her.  Her  voice  shook. 

"It  has  deceived  you  into  thinking  that  you  wish  your 
husband's  death.  You  do  not  wish  that.  Look  deeper 
into  this  deceitful  heart  of  yours,  and  you  will  see  that 
you  do  not.  Why  did  you  go  to  that  doctor?  Why 
have  you  come  here  to  me  ? " 

"I  ...  I  needed  .  .  .  help,  Father." 

"Just  so,  my  child.  You  needed  help  to  see  the  true  in 
wardness  of  your  spirit.  You  mistook  natural  indignation 
and  the  recoil  of  pain  for  the  sin  of  actual  desire.  You 
wished  to  escape — to  be  free — and  so  you  thought  that  you 
wished  your  husband's  death.  But  you  do  not  wish  it." 

"I  ...  I  think  ...  I  am  afraid  I  do,  Father." 

Her  voice  was  touchingly  humble,  like  a  child's  voice 
confessing  what  it  deems  a  terrible  crime  with  courageous 
obstinacy. 

"No,  my  child.  Think.  Could  you  now — here — by 
sending  forth  a  sharp  thought  like  a  dagger — kill  your 
husband — would  you  send  forth  that  thought?" 

Her  brow  knitted  painfully.  She  went  white  as  death. 
Then  the  blood  surged  over  her  face. 

"No,  Father,"  she  whispered. 

' '  You  see,  my  child  ?  What  you  craved  when  you  sought 
me  was  for  another  voice,  the  voice  of  a  human  being  like 
yourself,  to  echo  the  small,  still  voice  down  in  the  centre 
of  your  own  spirit.  The  voice  that  says  we  must  have  the 
courage  to  live  life  as  we  have  made  it  for  ourselves — hon 
estly,  righteously,  unflinchingly.  You  must  not  be  too 
severe  with  yourself,  my  child.  To  deny  the  hidden  good 
in  ourselves  is  the  subtlest  form  of  spiritual  pride.  It 
gives  death,  not  life.  There  was  a  great  Pagan  who  once 
uttered  a  profoundly  Christian  truth.  Wolfgang  von 
Goethe  said:  'Life  teaches  us  to  be  less  hard  with  others 
and — ourselves.'  Do  you  see  what  I  mean,  my  child?" 

"Yes,"  said  Sophy,  in  that  smothered  voice. 

"Then  what  you  must  do  is  very  simple.  First,  you 
must  forgive  your  husband — then  you  must  forgive  your 
self.  After  what  you  have  told  me,  I  can  see  no  salvation 
for  him  from  this  sad  vice  but  in  your  affection  and  your 
strong  wrill  to  help  him.  Consult  with  this  wise  doctor 
— follow  his  instructions  as  best  you  may.  Take  your  life, 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  69 

your  heart,  in  both  hands  and  lift  them  up  unto  the 
Lord.' 

"You  don't  know,  Father  .  .  .  you  can't  know  ..." 
She  shuddered  violently.  Her  grey  eyes  were  fixed  on  his 
in  desperate  appeal. 

"Yes,  my  child—I  do  know,"  he  said  tenderly.  "I  led 
the  life  of  an  ordinary  man  before  I  became  a  priest.  I 
know  well  what  you  are  suffering — what  lies  before  you — 
for  you  have  courage — you  will  not — desert."  He  said  it 
firmly,  but  his  kind  eyes  held  her,  full  of  the  comprehend 
ing  compassion  that  does  not  wound. 

Then  Sophy  gave  a  cry — the  cry  of  a  child  who  says :  "I 
wish  I  were  dead ! ' '  She  put  up  her  hands  to  her  face  and 
sobbed  out: 

"Oh,  I  wish  I  could  be  a  nun  ...  a  nun!" 

Very  tenderly  Father  Raphael  sat  smiling  down  at  her 
bowed  head.  Often  had  he  listened  to  this  cry — the  cry  of 
those  who  in  a  moment  of  extremity  long  for  a  cool  refuge 
from  the  hot  brawls  of  life.  Then  he  said  softly : 

"You  would  make  a  most  unhappy  nun,  my  child." 

In  a  small,  ashamed  voice  she  asked : 

"Why  do  you  say  so,  Father?" 

"For  many  reasons.  You  have  heard  the  expression, 
'  vocation, '  have  you  not  ? ' ' 

"Yes,  Father." 

"You  have  been  given  brilliant  gifts,  great  beauty,  a 

little  child There  lies  your  '  vocation. '  To  live  in  the 

world  yet  not  of  it,  that  is  the  life  to  which  God  has 
called  you." 

"Oh,  Father!  You  do  not  know  me.  Christ  said: 
'  Blessed  are  the  poor  in  spirit. '  I  am  very  proud,  Father — 
horribly,  wrongly  proud." 

The  priest  did  not  answer  her  directly.  He  said  in  a 
musing  tone : 

' '  I  have  often  thought  how  that  saying  of  Our  Lord 's  has 
been  misinterpreted.  By  'poor  in  spirit'  surely  He  did 
not  mean  poverty  of  spirit,  but  that  to  be  truly  poor — that 
is,  detached  from  the  things  of  this  world — a  man  must  not 
only  give  up  those  things  themselves,  but  give  up  even  the 
desire  for  them.  That  is  how  I  understand  the  saying, 
'Blessed  are  the  poor  in  spirit.'  ' 

"But,  Father — to  go  back — to  be  his  wife — after 


70  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

Oh,  it  is  not  only  that — but  in  one  of  his  furies  he  might 
kill  me — he  might  kill  my  little  son !  You  don 't  know — you 
can't  imagine  what  he  is  like  then " 

"God  does  not  ask  impossibilities  from  His  children," 
said  Father  Raphael  firmly.  "  'He  is  faithful  that  prom 
ised.  With  the  temptation  He  will  also  make  a  way  of 
escape.'  Should  you  fail  to  save  your  husband  from  this 
fatal  habit — should  your  life,  or  your  son's  life,  be  in 
danger,  then  your  duty  would  be  to  save  yourself.  The 
commandment  is  not  'Thou  shalt  love  thy  neighbor  better 
than  thyself— but  'as  thyself.'  ' 

"And  are  people  ever  really  saved  from  opium  or  mor 
phine,  Father?" 

"Yes,  my  child.  One  of  the  best  men  that  I  know — a 
fellow  worker  with  me  here — was  a  morphinomaniac. " 

"How  was  he  saved,  Father?" 

"By  God's  mercy  and  his  own  desire  to  be  saved." 

"Ah,  Father — that  is  just  it!  Will  he — will  my  hus 
band  desire  to  be  saved  ?  Will  he  let  me  help  him  ? ' ' 

"The  effort  must  be  yours — the  result  is  with  God.  If, 
after  you  have  honestly  tried  by  every  means  in  your  power 
— and  failed — then — I,  a  Roman  Catholic  priest,  to  whom 
marriage  is  a  sacrament,  say  to  you:  'Go  home  to  your 
own  land  and  your  own  kinsfolk. '  ' 

He  spoke  solemnly.  His  face  looked  stern  for  the  first 
time. 

Sophy  rose.  Her  spirit  was  stilled,  but  her  body  felt  as 
though  it  had  been  beaten  with  staves.  Every  bone  and 
nerve  ached  dully.  The  priest  rose  too.  She  looked  at  him 
timidly : 

"Can  you  give  me  your  blessing,  Father?" 

His  lovely  smile  melted  the  stern  look.  Instinctively  she 
knelt,  and  he  stretched  out  his  hands,  making  the  sign  of 
the  cross  in  the  air  above  her  bent  head. 

"Benedicat  te  omnipotens  Deus,  Pater  et  Filiiis  et  Spir- 
itus  Sanctus.  Amen." 

The  grave  Latin  words  of  benediction  rolled  solemnly 
over  her.  Her  spirit  felt  folded  in  a  soothing  peace.  She 
rose,  trembling  a  little. 

"I  wish  I  could  thank  you  ...  as  I  want  to,  Father," 
she  whispered. 

' '  Thank  God,  my  child.    He  sent  you  to  me. ' ' 

"Yes.     I  believe  that. " 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  71 

"Would  it  help  you  to  come  here  sometimes,  to  this  sim 
ple  house  dedicated  to  the  Mother  of  Compassion?" 

"Yes,  Father;  but  .  .  ." 

"Would  your  husband  be  displeased  if  he  knew  that  you 
came?" 

' '  Yes,  Father.     He  hates  the  Catholic  religion. ' ' 

"Then  do  not  come,  my  child.  But  remember  that  I  am 
here  if  you  need  me.  My  prayers  will  follow  you.  I  will 
have  a  Novena  for  you.  Be  of  good  courage. ' ' 

Sophy  gazed  at  him.  The  tears  gathered  again.  She 
could  not  speak.  Going  out  silently,  she  got  into  the  musty 
cab. 

She  remembered  nothing  of  the  drive  home.  Her  eyes 
were  turned  inward. 

XV 

DR.  CARFEW  came  at  one  o'clock.  He  was  a  tall,  sinewy 
man,  with  light  blue,  prominent  eyes  very  piercing,  and 
thick  yellow-grey  curls  that  stuck  out  below  the  brim  of 
his  hat  as  though  supporting  it.  He  put  a  few  brief  yet 
searching  questions  to  Sophy,  then  asked  to  see  the  patient. 
He  did  not  wish  Sophy  to  be  present  at  the  examination. 
Gaynor  remained  with  him  at  his  request.  After  half  an 
hour  he  came  downstairs.  Sophy  sat  waiting  for  him,  her 
hands  wrung  together  again.  She  had  put  back  her  rings. 

She  paled  when  she  saw  him  enter,  and  her  eyes  dark 
ened.  He  drew  up  a  chair  without  ceremony,  and  sat  down 
facing  her. 

"This  is  a  grave  case,  Mrs.  Chesney,"  he  said,  in  his 
abrupt  " no-nonsense-now "  voice.  "I  gathered  from  your 
husband 's  valet  that  you  have  not  a  clear  idea  of  how  mat 
ters  stand." 

"No.     I  have  not,"  she  said. 

* '  There  is  no  doubt  about  it.  Your  husband  is  the  victim 
of  a  most  fatal  habit." 

She  continued  looking  at  him  in  silence. 

"Have  you  never  even  suspected  the  cause  of  his  ail 
ment?"  he  asked  brusquely. 

"Yes — but  I  did  not  know  enough  to  be  certain." 

"It  is  a  clear  case — a  very  clear  case,  and  an  aggravated 
one,"  said  Carfew.  "Mr.  Chesney  is  a  morphinomaniac. 
He  is  so  addicted  to  the  drug  that  he  varies  the  effect  with 


72  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

cocaine — takes  them  alternately — both  drugs  hypodermi- 
cally." 

Sophy  sat  as  before,  gazing  at  him  without  a  word.  It 
was  as  if  it  paralysed  her  to  hear  these  long-surmised  hor 
rors  put  into  plain  words. 

Carfew  glanced  at  her  wyith  some  irritation. 

' '  I  hope  you  are  not  going  to  allow  yourself  to  give  way 
to  an  attack  of  nerves  because  I  speak  frankly, ' '  he  said. 

She  gave  a  little  start,  as  if  waking.  "I  do  not  have 
attacks  of  nerves,"  she  then  said  quietly. 

The  great  man  looked  mollified. 

"Pardon  my  blunt  speech,"  he  said;  "but  I  am  so  used 
to  ladies  collapsing  into  hysterics  under  such  circum 
stances.  That — or  not  believing  a  word  I  say,"  he  added 
grimly. 

"I  believe  all  that  you  say.    What  must  I  do?" 

"Ah — there  is  the  difficulty !  I  must  tell  you  at  once  that 
it  is  out  of  the  question  to  think  of  trying  to  deal  with 
such  a  case  in  the  patient's  own  home.  He  should  be  sent 
at  once  to  a  sanatorium — where  he  can  be  properly  treated 
and  restrained." 

"He  would  never  consent,"  said  Sophy,  in  a  dull  voice. 

' '  Good  heavens !  my  dear  lady — are  you  dreaming  of  con 
sulting  the  wishes  of  a  maniac  ? ' ' 

' '  He  is  not  always  like  this,  Doctor  Carfew.  At  times  he 
is  perfectly  rational." 

"Quite  so.  When  he  has  had  neither  too  much  nor  too 
little  of  either  drug.  To  be  in  an  apparently  normal  con 
dition,  now  that  he  is  saturated  with  the  poison,  his  system 
must  daily  absorb  a  certain  amount  of  either  cocaine  or 
morphia.  Too  little  racks  his  nerves.  Too  much  turns  him 
into  a  madman." 

Sophy  paled  even  more ;  then  she  said  apathetically : 

' '  I  know  positively  that  he  would  refuse  to  go  to  such  a 
place  as  that  you  mentioned." 

Carfew  rose,  and  took  a  few  turns  about  the  room.  Then 
he  came  and  stood  near,  looking  down  at  her  keenly. 

"Mrs.  Chesney,"  he  said,  "your  husband  was  within  an 
ace  of  death,  last  night.  I  will  not  enter  into  medical  de 
tail.  Only  the  prompt  intelligence  of  his  servant  saved 
him.  Do  you  propose  allowing  him  to  destroy  himself 
rather  than  face  his  anger?" 

' '  It  isn  't  the  question  of  his  anger  alone,  Doctor  Carfew. 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  73 

It  is  the  question  of  his  family — of  his  mother.  I  would 
not  be  justified  in  acting  alone.  Lady  Wychcote  must  be 
consulted. ' ' 

Carfew  looked  at  her  intently.  His  eyebrows  were 
yellow-grey  like  his  hair,  and  curled  also.  His  eyes  seemed 
buried  in  them  as  in  hairy  nests — like  pale,  blue  eggs, 
Sophy  thought  drearily,  as  she  gazed  at  their  hard  convex. 

"What  is  Lady  Wychcote  like?  Is  she  a  reasonable 
woman?"  asked  Carfew. 

Exhausted  and  wretched  as  she  was,  almost  Sophy  could 
have  smiled.  The  contrast  between  the  actual  Lady  Wych 
cote  and  the  "reasonable  woman"  surmised  by  Carfew 
struck  her  as  so  painfully  droll. 

"Not  always,  I  fear,"  she  said  gently. 

' '  Quite  so.  Just  as  I  thought.  A  blind  alley.  Will  you 
tell  this  ...  er  ...  not  always  reasonable  lady,  from  me 
— from  Algernon  Carfew — that  her  son  is  the  same  as  lost 
to  her  if  she  cannot  find  sufficient  reasonableness  to  have 
him  committed  to  a  sanatorium  for  his  own  good?" 

"Yes— I  will  tell  her." 

"But  you  think  it  won't  have  much  effect — eh?" 

"I'm  afraid  she  won't  believe  me." 

Carfew  glared. 

"Then  send  her  to  me!"  he  said.  It  was  the  voice  of  an 
Imperator  of  Medicine. 

"She  might  not  be  willing  to  see  you." 

' '  Mh !  .  .  .  This  complicates  matters.  For  the  present 
moment,  Mr.  Chesney  is  out  of  danger.  I  have  given  his 
man — Naylor  .  .  .?" 

"Gaynor." 

' '  I  have  given  Gaynor  full  instructions.  The  attack  will 
be  over  in  twenty-four  hours.  He  has  taken  a  most  amaz 
ing  amount  of  cocaine  within  the  last  three  days — winding 
up  with  a  huge  dose  of  morphia.  Cocaine  excites — mor 
phia  soothes — in  the  end.  When  was  he  last  violent?" 

Sophy  felt  as  though  choking. 

"Last  evening,"  she  managed  to  articulate. 

"Quite  so.  Very  violent,  indeed,  I  presume.  Was  he 
abusive  ? ' ' 

"Yes." 

"Mh.  Well,  it  rests  with  you,  and — er — Lady  Wych- 
field — Wychcote.  Quite  so.  I  will  not  undertake  the  case 
under  the  present  conditions.  By  the  way — make  no  mis- 


74  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

take  about  this  man  Naylor.  He  has  been  very  faithful. 
If  he  had  not  succeeded  in  persuading  his  master  to  mod 
erate  the  drug  at  times — well ' '  He  paused ;  then  said 

abruptly : ' '  Mr.  Chesney  would  probably  be  dead  or  a  hope 
less  lunatic." 

"Yes, "said  Sophy. 

Carfew  looked  at  her  earnestly  a  few  moments.  Then  his 
hard,  acute  visage  softened. 

"I  see  you're  trying  hard  to  be  brave,"  he  said. 
"You've  had  a  severe  shock.  Allow  me  to  prescribe  for 
you  at  least." 

' '  Thank  you, ' '  she  said  faintly. 

' '  Then  go  to  bed,  and  let  your  maid  rub  you  with  alcohol 
— a  soothing  friction.  Then  darken  your  room  and  try  to 
sleep." 

"Thank  you  very  much,"  said  Sophy  again,  and  this 
time  she  smiled  faintly. 

"Ha! — I  know  what  that  smile  means.  That  it's  easy 
for  a  medical  ignoramus  to  prescribe  sleep  when  there's  no 
dose  of  that  best  of  physics  available.  But  believe  me,  my 
dear  lady" — here  his  voice  softened  again — "exhaustion  is 
double  first-cousin  to  sleep — you  are  in  a  very  exhausted 
condition.  Only  lie  down  as  I  advise  you — even  without 
the  massage,  if  you  shrink  from  that — and  you  will  be 
asleep  before  you  know  it." 

"I  will  try,"  said  Sophy  patiently. 

"Good ! "  he  exclaimed.  He  went  towards  the  door,  then 
turned  again. 

"Tell  Lady  Wych — yes,  Wychcote;  thanks — tell  her  if 
she  does  not  believe  what  I  say,  to  ask  her  son  to  show  her 
his  bare  arms.  Good  afternoon. ' ' 

He  was  gone. 

Before  Sophy  followed  his  advice  and  went  to  lie  down, 
she  sent  a  telegram  to  Lady  Wychcote,  who  was  on  a  visit 
to  some  friends  in  Paris.  The  telegram  said: 

"Cecil  seriously  but  not  dangerously  ill.  Must  consult  you. 
When  may  I  expect  to  see  you?  SOPHY  CHESNEY." 

When  this  was  done,  she  went  to  her  room  and  let  Tilda 
fuss  over  her  and  make  her  comfortable  on  the  bed.  Car- 
few  was  right ;  scarcely  had  she  lain  down  than  she  dropped 
into  a  profound  sleep  which  lasted  for  several  hours. 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  75 

As  soon  as  she  woke,  she  sent  for  Gaynor.  She  had  made 
up  her  mind  to  speak  plainly  to  him.  She  felt  that  her  an 
tipathy  towards  him  had  come  from  her  instinct  that  he 
was  hiding  something.  Now  that  she  understood  his  rea 
sons  for  secrecy  and  the  difficulty  of  his  position,  she  no 
longer  disliked  but  respected  the  quiet,  dry  little  man  who 
was  so  loyal  to  his  master. 

' '  Gaynor, ' '  she  began.  Her  lip  trembled  in  spite  of  her. 
She  turned  her  head  and  looked  out  of  the  window  for  a 
second;  then  she  went  on  firmly:  "I've  sent  for  you  to 
thank  you — for  what  you've  tried  to  do  for  Mr.  Chesney, 
Gaynor.  And  for  coming  to  me — about  a — about  Doctor 
Carfew  this  morning." 

"I  am  grateful  to  you,  madam.  I  only  did  my  duty," 
said  Gaynor;  but  the  impassive  expression  of  his  face 
stirred  slightly.  "Allow  me  to  thank  you  for  mentioning 
it,  madam,"  he  added,  in  a  low  voice. 

"And,  Gaynor — I  have  been  thinking  deeply  over  this. 
I  shall  not  mention  either  to  Mr.  Chesney  or  her  ladyship 
that  you  suggested  my  sending  for  a  doctor. ' ' 

A  look  of  faint  surprise  stole  into  the  man 's  face ;  but  he 
kept  a  respectful  silence. 

"The  reason  I  do  this,"  continued  Sophy,  "is  because 
I  want  you  to  remain  with  Mr.  Chesney — I  want  you 
to  .  .  . "  She  paused ;  then  she  lifted  her  eyes  to  his  def 
erentially  expressionless  ones,  and  said  with  feeling:  "I 
want  you  to  help  me  to  help  him,  Gaynor. ' ' 

For  one  instant  the  neutral  look  which  was  the  livery  of 
his  face,  as  it  were,  fell  from  it,  and  Sophy  saw  a  deeply 
moved  fellow  being  gazing  at  her. 

"I  will  consider  it  an  honour  as  well  as  a  duty  to  be  of 
service  to  you,  madam,"  he  replied. 

"Very  well,  Gaynor.  Then  we  must  keep  nothing  that 
concerns  Mr.  Chesney  from  each  other.  I  will  be  quite 
frank  with  you — you  must  be  equally  frank  with  me.  You 
must  keep  nothing  back." 

"It  shall  be  as  you  wish,  madam,  in  every  respect." 

"That  is  all  for  the  moment.  Later  I  shall  get  you  to 
give  me  a  clear  account  of  ...  of  everything.  So  that  I 
shall  .  .  .  know  how  to  ...  to  act  in  emergencies  if  you 
should  not  be  there." 

"Very  good,  madam." 

"Is  Mr.  Chesney  still— asleep ?" 


76  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

"He  will  sleep  probably  until  to-morrow  afternoon, 
madam." 

"Let  me  know  when  he  recovers — I  shall  trust  to  you  to 
tell  me  when  it  is  best  for  me  to  see  him. ' ' 

"I  will,  madam." 

' '  Then — good-night,  Gaynor. ' ' 

"Good-night,  madam.     I  hope  that  you  will  rest  well." 

Lady  Wychcote  arrived  next  morning  and  drove  straight 
from  the  train  to  the  house  in  Regent 's  Park.  She  was  still 
a  beautiful  woman ;  but  as  Cecil  had  told  Sophy  during 
their  engagement,  with  that  peculiar  British  frankness  in 
speaking  of  the  closest  relations,  she  was  "as  hard  as 
nails,"  and  her  beauty  was  also  adamantine.  Though 
sixty,  she  did  not  look  more  than  forty-five,  but  her  ' '  make 
up"  was  judicious  and  wonderfully  well  done.  There 
were  people  who  said  that  Cecily  Wychcote  had  gone  to 
Paris  for  six  months  or  so,  and  there,  in  a  mysterious  seclu 
sion,  had  had  the  skin  peeled  from  her  face  by  some  adept 
in  the  art  of  flaying,  and  that  this  explained  the  absence 
of  wrinkles  "at  her  age."  True,  wrinkles  in  the  ordinary 
sense  of  the  word  she  had  not ;  her  well-chiselled  face  was 
as  smooth  and  empty  of  expression  in  repose  as  a  Wedge- 
wood  plaque,  and  its  patine  was  as  rare  a  work  of  art ;  but 
her  icy  eyes,  still  as  blue  as  cobalt,  could  express  many 
things  very  admirably,  as  could  her  delicate  thin  lips  and 
nostrils.  Lady  Wychcote 's  wig  was  as  conservative  as 
the  politics  of  her  house.  It  was  a  fair  brown,  and  here 
and  there  the  artist  had  woven  in  grey  hairs.  She  dressed 
well.  She  was  the  modern  type  of  young-old  woman  in 
its  highest  perfection.  Only  her  language,  like  her  mind, 
had  a  taint  of  early  Victorian;  but  of  this  she  was  totally 
unaware. 


XVI 

LADY  WYCHCOTE  entered  the  drawing-room  abruptly,  very 
smart  and  untravel-stained  in  her  blue  serge  gown  with 
little  gilet  and  toque  of  purple  velvet.  She  never  suf 
fered  from  seasickness,  and  through  her  veil  of  black- 
dotted  tulle  she  certainly  did  not  look  more  than  five-and- 
forty.  She  barely  gave  herself  time  to  brush  her  daughter- 
in-law  's  cheek  with  the  chenille  dots  of  her  veil  and  mutter 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  77 

"How  d'ye  do?"  In  the  same  breath,  in  her  brittle,  im 
perious  voice,  she  rapped  out : 

"What's  the  matter  with  Cecil?  What  does  Craig  Hop 
kins  say?" 

Before  she  could  be  answered,  and  in  spite  of  a  real 
anxiety,  she  seated  herself.  Though  she  was  a  tall  woman, 
Sophy  was  at  least  two  inches  taller ;  and  this  always  exas 
perated  her.  She  liked  to  look  down  on  people  literally  as 
well  as  metaphorically. 

' '  Doctor  Hopkins  has  not  seen  Cecil, ' '  said  Sophy.  The 
storm  must  break  sometime ;  why  not  at  once  ? 

"Eh?"  cried  Lady  Wychcote  sharply.  "What's  that? 
What  d 'you  say?" 

Her  voice  had  the  bark  in  it  that  Cecil's  always  had 
when  he  was  angry,  and  that  he  had  inherited  from  her. 
She  reared  her  head  suddenly  and  looked  at  Sophy  along 
her  delicate  nose. 

"D'you  mean  to  tell  me  that  you  haven't  consulted  a 
doctor  about  your  husband  ? ' ' 

' '  Yes ;  I  have  seen  a  doctor,  but  not  Doctor  Hopkins. ' ' 

"You  have — seen — a — doctor — but  not  the  family  doc 
tor  f  Your  reasons,  pray  ?" 

The  tone  was  scathing,  even  insolent.  Sophy  felt  her 
blood  rise,  but  her  calmness  did  not  forsake  her. 

"I  have  some  very  painful  things  to  tell  you,  Lady 
Wychcote.  Please  try  to  listen  patiently." 

"  'Patiently'?"  She  put  up  her  face-d-main.  The 
dotted  veil  prevented  her  from  seeing  clearly  through  it, 
but  the  gcste  was  all  that  she  desired.  This  habit  of  sar 
castic  echoing  was  one  of  her  most  trying  and  effective 
methods.  "Pray  explain  yourself!"  she  added,  in  a  tart 
voice. 

Sophy  explained  very  thoroughly.  When  she  had  fin 
ished,  her  mother-in-law  drew  her  eyelids  together  and 
said  through  narrowed  lips:  "How  did  you  come  to  think 
of  this  Doctor  Carfew?" 

' '  I  asked  for  a  nerve-specialist 's  address.  Gaynor  knew 
of  this  one." 

' '  You  sent  for  a  doctor  for  my  son  at  a  servant 's  instiga 
tion?" 

Sophy  frowned  a  little. 

"I  went  to  Doctor  Carfew  myself — of  my  own  accord. 
Please  take  another  tone  with  me,  Lady  Wychcote,"  she 


78  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

added.  "I  think  we  can  arrive  at  more  useful  conclusions 
in  that  way." 

They  looked  at  each  other  in  silence  for  a  moment ;  then 
Lady  Wychcote  said : 

"Is  Cecil  awake?" 

"I  do  not  think  so.  Gaynor  was  to  send  me  word  in 
that  case." 

"You  evidently  rely  on  this  man  Gaynor  for  every 
thing." 

"I  consider  him  reliable.    I  have  no  one  else  to  rely  on." 

Lady  Wychcote  rose. 

"I  must  tell  you,"  she  said,  "that  I  intend  sending  for 
Craig  Hopkins  at  once." 

"I  wired  for  you,  to  consult  you,"  said  Sophy  evenly. 

"Quite  so.  And  I  presume  that  you  are  not  surprised 
that  I  refuse  to  take  the  opinion  of  a  quack  on  a  matter  so 
near  to  me  as  the  health  of  my  son." 

"I  do  not  think  that  Doctor  Carfew  can  be  justly  called 
a  'quack.'  lie  is  celebrated." 

"Pardon  me,  but  that's  nonsense.  All  so-called  special 
ists  are  quacks,  more  or  less.  And  I  believe  that  Cagliostro 
was  a  very  celebrated  person." 

Sophy  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"I  only  beg  that  whatever  you  decide  to  do  will  be  done 
quickly,"  she  said. 

"You  shall  be  gratified.  Craig  Hopkins  shall  be  here 
within  the  hour.  I  will  go  for  him  myself — and  return 
with  him." 

"Thanks,"  said  Sophy  gravely. 

This  "thanks"  seemed  to  irritate  Lady  Wychcote  be 
yond  endurance.  She  turned  pale  under  her  rouge,  and 
bit  the  shreds  of  what  had  once  been  a  lovely,  though 
heartless,  mouth. 

' '  I  don 't  doubt, ' '  she  said  at  last,  ' '  that  Hopkins 's  opin 
ion  wrill  coincide  with  mine.  I  am  convinced  that  the  whole 
matter  has  been  grossly  exaggerated." 

"Of  course,  only  a  doctor  can  be  the  judge  of  that," 
said  Sophy,  still  quietly. 

Lady  Wychcote  had  reached  the  age  when  in  mothers  of 
her  type  the  affections  wane  as  the  ambitions  wax.  She 
desired  to  have  her  pride  satisfied  rather  than  her  heart 
filled.  And  of  her  two  sons,  one  was  an  easy-going  invalid, 
and  the  other  a  brilliant  failure.  She  was  bitterly  think- 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  79 

ing,  as  she  bruised  Sophy's  spirit  with  her  hard,  impla 
cable  eyes,  "If  Cecil  had  married  a  clever  woman  of  his 
own  class  and  country — she  could  have  made  him.  How 
many  Englishmen  have  been  made  politically  by  their 
wives !  Even  Chatham — one  never  hears  much  of  his  wife, 
to  be  sure — but  there's  the  fact.  His  first  really  active, 
successful  part  in  politics  was  taken  shortly  after  he  mar 
ried  her." 

When  Dr.  Hopkins  came  and  had  seen  Cecil  (he  also 
requested  to  see  him  alone,  and  would  have  neither  Sophy 
nor  Lady  Wychcote  go  in  with  him)  he  looked  very  grave, 
and  stated  that,  in  his  opinion  also,  Mr.  Chesney  was  suf 
fering  from  the  overuse  of  opiates. 

' '  '  Opiates '  ?  That  is  an  elastic  term, ' '  said  Lady  Wych 
cote  impatiently.  "Say  plainly  what  you  mean,  please." 

Hopkins  looked  pained,  but  answered  straightforwardly 
that,  in  his  opinion  also,  Mr.  Chesney  was  in  the  habit  of 
taking  morphine  hypodermically. 

"Why  hypodermically?"  asked  Lady  Wychcote. 

"It  is  self-evident,  your  ladyship.  His  arms  are  in  a 
terrible  condition  from  the  use  of  the  syringe. ' ' 

Lady  Wychcote  grew  pale.  And  Sophy,  looking  at  her, 
thought  how  strange  it  was  that  her  random  slander  of 
herself  (Sophy)  had  so  come  home  to  her.  She  had  ac 
cused  her  daughter-in-law  of  giving  her  son  drugs — idly, 
as  she  said  such  bitter,  untrue  things  of  people  when  dis 
pleased  with  them,  not  counting  the  cost  to  others  involved. 
She  had  noticed  Cecil's  growing  eccentricity,  and  in  order 
to  attribute  it  more  directly  to  what  she  termed  his  ' '  disas 
trous"  marriage,  had  accused  Sophy  of  this  dark  thing. 
And  now — lo!  the  dark  thing  was  no  lie,  but  the  truth — 
only  it  was  her  son  himself  who  was  his  own  destroyer,  not 
the  woman  whom  she  hated. 

She  rallied  suddenly,  rearing  her  head  back  with  the 
gesture  habitual  to  her. 

"I  wish  to  see  for  myself,"  she  said  haughtily,  moving 
towards  the  door.  "He  will  not  know.  Show  me  these 
marks  on  his  arms." 

"No!"  said  Sophy,  in  a  low  voice,  stepping  in  front  of 
her. 

"What!     You  try  to  prevent  me  from  seeing  my  son?" 

"I  shall  keep  you  from  going  to  him  while  he  is  helpless 
— for  such  a  purpose. ' ' 


80  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

She  laid  her  hand  on  a  bell  near  by. 

"Let  me  pass,"  said  Lady  Wychcote,  in  a  suffocated 
voice.  Dr.  Hopkins  looked  the  image  of  respectability  in 
distress.  The  heavens  would  not  have  been  enough  to 
cover  him.  He  would  have  preferred  something  more 
solid — the  whole  earth  between  him  and  these  incensed 
ladies. 

"No!"  said  Sophy  again.  "If  you  insist,  I  shall  be 
forced  to  ring  and  give  orders  that  no  one  is  to  be  admitted 
to  my  husband's  room." 

"You  would  dare  do  that?" 

"I  would  do  it.    You  are  in  my  house,  Lady  Wychcote." 

"My  son's  house.  ..." 

' '  I  am  his  wife.  I  must  do  what  I  know  that  he  would 
wish." 

Just  here  Gaynor  knocked  at  the  door. 

"Mr.  Chesney  is  asking  for  you,  madam,"  he  said  to 
Sophy. 

' '  Does  he  know  that  I  am  here  ? ' '  put  in  Lady  Wychcote 
quickly. 

"No,  your  ladyship.  He  is  hardly  himself  yet.  I  have 
told  him  nothing." 

"Are  you  going  to  see  him?"  asked  she,  in  a  hard,  angry 
voice,  turning  to  Sophy. 

"Yes." 

"I  suppose  at  least  that  you  will  have  the — the  ..." 
She  choked  on  the  word.  She  longed  to  say  "decency," 
but  the  servant's  presence  forbade.  "...  The  civility  to 
tell  him  that  his  mother  is  here  and  wishes  to  see  him," 
she  wound  up  sullenly. 

"Yes,  I  will  tell  him,"  said  Sophy. 

She  went  up  to  Cecil's  room  and  approached  the  bed. 
He  recognised  her  step  instantly,  and  said  in  a  weak 
voice : 

"Sophy?" 

"Yes,  Cecil— it's  Sophy." 

"Nearer  .  .  ."he  murmured.     "Come  nearer  ..." 

She  bent  down  to  him.  The  close,  stale  after-smell  of 
fever  reeked  up  to  her  from  his  unshaven  face.  She  felt 
very  pitiful  towards  him.  All  the  hatred  had  ebbed  from 
her  heart.  Yet  she  shrank  from  him ;  he  was  repellent  to 
her.  The  conflict  between  repulsion  and  pity  sent  an  in 
ward  tremor  like  sickness  through  her. 


81 

"Sophy  .  .  .  what  .  .  .  what  did  I  do  ...  that  night?" 
came  the  dragging  voice. 

Her  hand  clenched  in  the  folds  of  her  gown.  He  had 
taken  the  other  and  was  fumbling  it  in  his  nerveless  fingers. 

' '  You  were  very  excited.  We  '11  talk  of  that  later — when 
you're  stronger." 

"No  .  .  .  now  .  .  .  now.  It  hurts  my  head  .  .  .  try 
ing  to  work  the  damned  thing  out!  Was  I  ...  did 
I  .  .  .?" 

' '  You  were  angry.  You  said  unkind  things  to  me.  But 
that's  over.  Don't  torment  yourself." 

He  was  silent.  He  seemed  dozing.  Then  he  roused 
again. 

"  It 's  a  hellish  .  .  .  shame  .  .  . ! "  he  murmured,  in  that 
spent  voice.  The  violent  words  contrasted  painfully  with 
the  weak  tones. 

"What  is?"  she  said,  humouring  him. 

"Your  having  .  .  .  a  chap  like  me  .  .  .  for  a  husband. " 

"You're  ill,  Cecil.  Don't  worry.  Try  to  sleep  again. 
But  wait  a  minute — your  mother  is  here.  Would  you  like 
to  see  her?" 

' '  Damnation — no ! "  he  said.  Then  he  seemed  to  think 
better  of  it.  ' '  Well — since  the  old  lady 's  lowered  her  crest 
enough  to  come — send  her  up,"  he  muttered.  "Don't  let 
her  talk,  though — will  you?" 

"  I  '11  tell  her  that  you  can 't  bear  any  talking. ' ' 

She  moved  towards  the  door. 

"Sophy  .  .  ." 

"Yes?" 

' '  Could  you  kiss  a  chap  ? ' ' 

She  went  back  and  kissed  his  forehead. 

' '  Sophy  .  .  . "  he  said  again  weakly.  Then  he  turned  his 
face  into  the  pillow.  She  heard  smothered  sobs.  This  was 
dreadful.  She  knelt  down  by  him  and  put  her  arm  across 
his  heaving  shoulders. 

"Don't  .  .  .  don't  .  .  .!"  she  pleaded.  "Oh,  Cecil  .  .  . 
don't!  It  will  all  come  right.  I'm  here.  I'll  stand  by 
you." 

His  weak  fingers  fumbled  again  and  found  her  own. 

"I'm  all  right,"  he  muttered.  "Just  a  bit  weak.  Go 
send  the  mater  up.  .  .  .  Don't  let  her  jaw,  though." 

Lady  Wychcote  came  down  from  her  son's  room  looking 
encouraged  and  triumphant. 


82  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

' '  He  seems  perfectly  rational, ' '  she  said,  speaking  point 
edly  to  Hopkins.  "I  really  think  you  must  have  exag 
gerated  the  seriousness  of  the  case. ' ' 

"Let  us  hope  so,"  he  said  cautiously.    "But  I  fear  not." 

"Will  you  undertake  the  case?"  she  then  asked. 

Hopkins  glanced  uncomfortably  in  Sophy's  direction. 
He  faltered  out : 

' '  I — er — have  not  much  experience  in  these — er — cases. ' ' 

Sophy  did  not  interfere.  As  soon  as  Cecil  was  well 
enough,  she  intended  to  tell  him  everything  and  see  if  she 
could  not  engage  his  higher  self  to  fight  with  her  against 
his  lower.  She  listened  in  calm  silence,  therefore,  to  the 
dialogue  between  Lady  Wychcote  and  the  man  who  had  for 
years  been  the  family  doctor. 

' '  Nonsense ! ' '  Lady  Wychcote  exclaimed  sharply,  in  re 
ply  to  Hopkins 's  faltering  objection.  "It  is  simply  a  mat 
ter  of  nurses  and  regime.  You  have  nurses  that  you  can 
rely  on,  I  suppose?" 

"I  can  certainly  procure  suitable  nurses,  your  ladyship. 
But  I  believe  that  in  these — er — cases  the  patient's  co-oper 
ation  is  most  important.  And  the — er — conditions  should 
be  favourable." 

"Good  heavens!  You  don't  mean  to  suggest  a  sana 
torium,  I  hope?" 

' '  No.  Not  a  sanatorium  exactly ;  but — er — in  town — in  a 
town  like  London — there  are — the  drug  is  too  easily  ob 
tained." 

"My  good  man,"  she  cried  impatiently,  "all  this  is  be 
side  the  mark.  What  better  place  can  you  wrant  than 
Dynehurst  ?  We  will  take  him  to  Dynehurst ! ' ' 

"Perhaps  that  would  be  a  good  idea,"  said  Hopkins, 
looking  greatly  relieved.  "I  could  attend  him  here  until 
his  system  had  somewhat  recovered  tone,  and  then  with — er 
— a  proper  nurse,  or  nurses,  in  attendance,  he  could  be 
removed  to  your  country  seat.  I  believe  you  have  an  ex 
cellent  physician  there,  have  you  not  ? ' ' 

"Yes.    A  very  able  man,  indeed." 

Hopkins  turned  nervously  to  Sophy. 

"How  does  the  idea  of  such  an  arrangement  strike  you, 
Mrs.  Chesney?" 

"I  think  that  everything  will  depend  on  what  my  hus 
band  himself  wishes,  when  he  is  stronger,  Doctor  Hop 
kins." 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  83 

''Quite  so.  Quite  so.  The  patient's  co-operation  is 
most  important." 

Lady  Wychcote  again  addressed  him  abruptly : 

"What  is  your  opinion  of  this  man  Gaynor — my  son's 
valet?" 

"Why,  he  seems  a  very  intelligent,  worthy  person,  in 
deed!" 

"You  think  he  may  be  safely  left  in  his  present  posi 
tion?" 

"Oh,  certainly,  certainly,  your  ladyship!" 

The  little  doctor,  whom  Lady  Wychcote  had  elected 
years  ago  to  his  present  position  as  her  medical  adviser, 
chiefly  because  he  was  like  wax  in  her  firm  hands,  then 
made  his  escape.  He  left  instructions  and  prescriptions 
galore.  Sophy  suffered  this  with  perfect  tranquillity,  be 
cause  she  knew  that  Gaynor  had  already  had  other  instruc 
tions  and  would  follow  only  those  of  the  physician  in  whose 
authority  he  believed. 

When  her  mother-in-law  also  took  her  departure,  Sophy 
turned  to  Gaynor,  who  had  been  summoned  again  to  con 
vey  Lady  Wychcote 's  parting  messages  to  her  son. 

She  smiled  a  very  weary,  kind  smile  at  the  little  grey 
servitor,  and  said: 

"I'm  afraid  we  shall  have  to  fight  it  out  pretty  much 
alone  together,  Gaynor." 

Then  Gaynor  emerged  from  his  shell  of  reserve  for  an 
instant,  and  startled  himself. 

"The  Almighty  is  very  powerful,  madam,"  is  what  he 
said. 

XVII 

SOPHY'S  chief  object  now  was  to  have  a  clear,  plain  talk 
with  her  husband.  She  knew  how  painful  and  trying  to 
them  both  this  interview  would  be,  and  longed  to  have  it 
over.  Later  in  the  day,  when  Chesney  was  again  asleep, 
she  sent  for  Gaynor  and  asked  him  for  the  explanation 
that  she  had  mentioned  that  morning.  He  told  her  that 
the  habit  had  really  begun  with  an  attack  of  jungle  fever, 
or  rather  had  been  taken  up  as  an  alleviation  of  the  nerv 
ousness,  dull  aching,  and  violent  headaches  that  had  fol 
lowed  the  fever.  On  the  voyage  back  to  England,  the 
ship's  doctor  had  given  Chesney  a  hypodermic  of  mor- 


84  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

phia  to  quiet  one  of  these  brain  headaches  that  had  lasted 
for  twenty-four  hours.  He  gave  it  with  the  usual  warn 
ings  that  such  drugs  were  never  to  be  tampered  with, 
never  taken  unless  at  the  express  command  of  a  physician. 
But  somehow  Gaynor  had  felt  uneasy,  even  then — had  had 
a  presentiment,  as  he  might  say,  in  fact.  Mr.  Chesney  had 
looked  so  quiet  and  mocking  at  the  doctor.  He  had  said 
afterwards  to  Gaynor : 

"Those  doctor  chaps  are  a  class  of  fools  all  to  them 
selves,  Gaynor.  They  prescribe  a  bit  of  heaven — then 
order  you  to  stay  snug  in  hell. ' '  Mrs.  Chesney  would  please 
kindly  pardon  his  ( Gaynor 's)  plain  speaking.  Those  were 
the  exact  words  that  Mr.  Chesney  had  used.  When  they 
reached  London,  Mr.  Chesney  had  at  once  bought  a  fitted 
hypodermic-syringe — that  is,  a  little  case  containing  a 
syringe,  needles,  and  tiny  bottles  of  morphia,  apo-morphia, 
strychnine,  and  cocaine.  The  cocaine  he  had  used  only 
during  the  past  few  months.  At  first  he  had  put  this  case 
in  Gaynor 's  charge — only  demanding  it  when  one  of  those 
violent  headaches  came  on.  This  stage  had  lasted  for 
about  a  year  (the  year  of  her  marriage  with  him  Sophy 
calculated  rapidly).  Then  he  began  to  ask  for  it  more 
frequently.  Several  times  Gaynor  had  respectfully  with 
held  the  drug,  and  these  refusals  Mr.  Chesney  had  taken  in 
good  part — just  at  first.  Then — Mrs.  Chesney  would  please 
kindly  pardon  him  for  such  plain  speaking,  Mrs.  Chesney 
had  asked  him  to  keep  nothing  back — then  he  found,  by  ac 
cident,  that  Mr.  Chesney  had  bought  another  hypodermic- 
syringe — which  he  concealed.  He  would  get  doses  from 
Gaynor,  and  in  between  take  others,  the  valet  could  only 

guess  how  often.  Then Gaynor  hesitated,  glancing 

anxiously  at  Sophy. 

"Don't  be  afraid  to  speak  out,"  she  said  gently.  "I 
must  know  everything  if  I  am  to  be  of  help  to  him.  Was 
it  at  that  time  that  Mr.  Chesney  began  to — to  take  so  much 
wine  and — spirits?" 

"Yes,  madam." 

There  was  a  dull,  brownish  red  in  the  man's  face.  He 
suffered  at  having  to  put  his  unfortunate  master's  weak 
ness  into  words — at  hearing  his  master's  wife  speak  with 
such  sad  plainness. 

"Why  was  that,  Gaynor?  Do  all — all  people  who  use 
such  drugs-1— do  that — too  ? ' ' 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  85 

"  I  do  not  know,  madam.  But  there  always  comes  a  time 
of  great  weakness  with  Mr.  Chesney  after  the  morphine. 
It  is  then  it  happens.  And  afterwards  there  is  great  nerv 
ousness.  Another  dose  of  morphia  is  the  only  thing  that 
will  quiet  it.  So  it  goes,  madam.  First  one — then  the 
other.  It  is  very  terrible  to  watch.  One  feels  helpless.  I 
have  tried  hard  to  prevent  it — with  all  my  might,  I  should 
say,  madam." 

"I  am  sure  you  have,  Gaynor,"  she  said  warmly.  She 
sat  for  some  moments  thinking,  her  eyes  on  her  wedding 
ring  which  she  turned  round  and  round.  Then  she  asked 
what  instructions  Dr.  Carfew  had  given. 

' '  He  ordered  small  doses,  madam.  I  am  to  give  them  at 
longer  intervals  each  time — lessening  the  dose  each  time 
also.  Sometimes  I  must  substitute  strychnine.  He  also 
ordered  malted  milk,  and  a  nourishing  diet — things  easy 
to  digest  and  fattening.  He  said  that  Mr.  Chesney  weighed 
less  than  he  should  by  at  least  two  stone.  And  there  must 
be  no  spirit  of  any  kind  given." 

He  stopped  abruptly,  flushing  again. 

"And  the  other — Doctor  Hopkins — what  did  he  say?" 

Something  that  was  almost  a  smile  quivered  under  Gay 
nor 's  light  eyelashes.  His  voice  was  very  demure. 

"He  gave  me  several  prescriptions  for  different  occa 
sions,  madam." 

"Did  he  leave  any  instructions  about  the  quantity  of — 
morphine?"  She  paled  as  she  uttered  the  word,  but  she 
felt  that  she  must  use  it.  It  would  have  to  be  used  very 
often  between  this  man  and  herself  if  they  were  to  save 
Cecil.  "About  the  amount  that  you  were  to  give  Mr. 
Chesney?" 

Gaynor  looked  down  as  though  ashamed  for  the  little 
doctor. 

"He  said  that  nothing  could  be  done  just  at  present, 
madam.  That  I  must  keep  the  master  comfortable.  That 
he  must  be  reasoned  with  when  he  was  better,  and  spoken 
to  very  plain  for  his  own  good." 

"I  see,"  said  Sophy  wearily. 

She  thought  again ;  then  asked : 

"When  do  you  think  that  Mr.  Chesney  will  be  strong 
enough  for  me  to  talk  with  him?  I  mean  to  talk  really 
with  him — to — to  let  him  know  that — I  know?" 

"By  this  evening — about  nine,  I  should  say,  madam." 


86 

Sophy  gazed  at  him  in  astonishment. 

' '  By  this  evening  ?    But  he  is  still  so  ill,  Gaynor ! " 

"This  isn't  like  other  illnesses,  madam.  I  have  only  to 
give  him  a  large  dose,  and  it  will  put  him  normal." 

' '  But  Doctor  Carf ew  's  orders  ? ' ' 

The  man  looked  sadly  and  wisely  at  her. 

"He  would  not  object,  I'm  sure,  madam,  seeing  the  ob 
ject  that  is  in  view." 

"And  it  will  not  injure  him?" 

"Oh,  no,  madam !  At  the  worst,  it  will  only  delay  things 
a  bit." 

Sophy  leaned  her  head  on  her  hand.  She  felt  mortally 
tired — soul,  mind,  and  body. 

"Very  well,  then,  Gaynor,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice,  "at 
nine  o  'clock  I  will  come  to  Mr.  Chesney  's  room. ' ' 

When  she  entered  her  husband's  room  that  evening,  she 
saw  that  he  was  expecting  her.  His  face  lighted  up  as  she 
came  in,  and  he  held  out  one  hand  towards  her.  His  eyes 
showed  the  dulled  surface  and  contracted  pupils  that  she 
now  knew  meant  a  recent  dose  of  morphia.  Otherwise,  his 
appearance  was  normal.  But  when  he  began  to  speak  she 
noted  the  dryness  of  the  mouth  which  she  felt  must  also  be 
produced  by  the  drug.  He  was  propped  upon  several  large 
pillows,  as  on  that  evening  some  twro  weeks  ago,  and  there 
were  books  and  writing  materials  around  him.  She  was 
surprised  to  see  a  glass  of  champagne  on  the  little  table, 
remembering  what  Gaynor  had  said  about  Dr.  Carfew's 
commands  in  that  respect.  Then  she  realised  that  the  man 
was  merely  violating  instructions  on  this  occasion  in  order 
to  put  her  husband  in  a  fitting  condition  for  their  talk. 

Chesney  saw  her  look  at  the  glass  of  wine,  and  said  with 
good-humoured  peevishness : 

"I  see  you're  wondering  at  my  scant  allowance.  But 
that  old  screw  Gaynor  is  a  terrible  bully  at  these  times. 
He  knows  he  has  me  in  his  power — confound  him !  So  he 
keeps  me  on  short  rations  of  everything  that's  the  least 
pleasant.  Besides,  the  stuff's  flat  by  now,  being  poured  out 
in  a  glass  like  that,  instead  of  served  properly  in  a  bottle." 

Then  the  fretful  expression  left  his  face,  and  a  look  of 
admiration  replaced  it. 

' '  By  Jove — you  look  like  a  lovely  gold  statue  of  Diana  in 
that  gown!  There's  something  so  ineradicably  virginal 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  87 

about  you — keeps  a  chap  falling  in  love  with  you  over  and 
over. ' ' 

Sophy  hated  the  especial  voice  in  which  he  spoke  just 
then.  It  was  the  voice  of  an  amiably  inclined  Pasha,  con 
gratulating  himself  on  his  taste  in  favourites.  She  had 
again  put  on  the  orange  tea-gown  that  he  liked,  feeling 
that  she  must  soften  him  in  every  way  possible  before  tell 
ing  him  the  painful  truth,  on  his  reception  of  which  so 
much  depended.  From  the  full  petal-like  collar,  her  throat 
rose  like  a  white  stamen  from  a  gold  corolla.  Chesney's 
eyes  gloated  over  her — his  chief  possession. 

"George,  but  you're  a  beauty!"  he  said,  with  his  silent 
laugh.  "And  shy!  You're  wincing  this  very  minute 
under  my  praise — my  conjugal  praise.  You  know  you  are 
— you  incorrigible  Artemis." 

Sophy  looked  at  him  thoughtfully,  marvelling.  Was  it 
possible  that  he  had  no  clear  memory  of  that  dreadful  din 
ner  at  the  House  of  Commons  ?  Yes.  It  must  be  so.  "With 
all  his  latent  brutality,  he  could  not  have  been  cognisant  of 
what  he  had  done  there,  and  yet  speak  and  seem  like  this. 
And  it  was  very  hard  to  know  how  to  begin.  It  seemed  so 
terrible  a  thing  to  have  to  bring  a  look  of  confusion,  of 
shame  even,  to  that  confident,  almost  condescendingly  as 
sured  face.  She  could  not  divine  the  wild  sense  of  triumph 
that  filled  him,  because  of  the  accustomed  poison  in  his 
veins  after  his  twenty-four  hours  of  enforced  fast  from  it. 
He  felt  that  his  "strength  was  as  the  strength  of  ten,"  be 
cause  he  felt  also  the  bite  of  the  admirable  and  abominable 
drug  at  his  midriff.  The  sting  of  the  spot  where  the 
needle  had  thrust  into  his  flesh  was  sweet  as  the  sting  left 
by  a  kiss  to  the  normal  lover.  He  knew  that  he  risked  the 
danger  of  an  abscess  every  time  that  he  thrust  the  needle 
into  his  arms  or  legs,  already  so  thickly  punctured.  He  did 
not  care.  Morphia  gives  this  carelessness — this  calm  reck 
lessness  of  all  that  may  follow. 

"Cecil  ..."  said  Sophy  suddenly.  She  leaned  forward 
and  took  his  hand  in  both  hers.  His  lids  contracted.  He 
recognised  the  tone  in  her  voice,  and  it  made  him  uneasy. 
There  was  always  something  disturbing  to  follow,  when 
Sophy  spoke  in  that  tone. 

"Well?"  he  said ;  and  his  voice  told  her,  on  her  side,  that 
he  was  on  the  defensive. 

"Cecil — your  feeling  is  right.     I  mean  I  hear  in  your 


88  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

voice  that  you  feel  I  am  going  to  say  something  that  will 
be  painful.  But  it's  ...  it's  my  love  for  you  that  makes 
me  say  it.  You'll  believe  that,  won't  you?" 

He  kept  his  eyes  narrowed  and  fixed  on  her.  The  look 
was  so  like  his  mother's  in  certain  moods  that  she  felt  her 
heart  sink. 

"Well,"  he  said  again,  "get  it  over  whatever  it  is." 

She  held  his  hand  tight.  It  was  as  if  she,  not  he,  were 
drowning,  and  she  clung  to  his  hand  for  succour — not  to 
give  it.  He  felt  that  she  held  her  breath  for  an  instant. 
Then  she  said,  very  low,  her  eyes  imploring  him : 

"My  dear,  when  you  were  ill  yesterday,  I  had  to  send 
for  a  doctor." 

He  jerked  his  hand  away  so  violently  that  he  dragged 
her  forward  on  to  her  knees  beside  the  bed.  She  stayed 
herself  against  it,  never  taking  her  eyes  from  his  face. 

"You — did  what?'7  he  said  in  a  fierce  whisper. 

"Oh,  Cecil!  .  .  .  Don't  look  at  me  like  that.  Don't  look 
at  me  wTith  such  cruel  eyes.  You  seemed  dying — you  were 
unconscious  for  hours.  What  else  could  I  do?  Be  just — 
tell  me  that.  What  else  could  I  have  done?" 

He  was  thinking  like  lightning.  Thoughts  zigzagged 
against  the  black  cloud  of  anger  in  his  mind  in  fiery  flashes 
— clear  as  they  were  swift.  How  much  had  this  doctor 
guessed — or  known?  What  had  he  said?  How  much  did 
Sophy  know?  What  role  would  it  be  best  for  him  to  play? 
He  had  long  dreaded  this  contingency.  He  knew  that  some 
times  he  overdosed  himself  with  the  drug.  There  were 
blank  spaces  in  his  life — gaps  which  he  could  not  fill  in 
with  any  sequence  of  events,  try  as  he  might.  What  had 
happened?  What  had  he  himself  said  or  done?  Had  he 
left  the  hypodermic  syringe  where  she  could  see  it?  Had 
Gaynor  turned  disloyal  ?  One  bit  of  clear  reason  rose  domi 
nant  above  the  chaos  of  surmise.  He  must  appear  calm, 
no  matter  how  violent  the  tumult  of  his  secret  self.  He 
must  remain  passive  until  some  cue  was  given  him,  then 
act  out  consistently  the  part  that  seemed  best  suited  to  the 
occasion.  He  closed  his  eyes  for  a  moment.  When  he 
opened  them  their  expression  was  no  longer  furious. 

"You  must  excuse  me,  Sophy,"  he  said  rather  formally. 
"I  think  you  must  be  able  to  imagine  the  shock  it  was  to 
me  to  hear  that  you  had  called  in  one  of  those  dirty  fakirs, 
knowing  as  you  do  my  opinion  of  the  fraternity." 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  89 

He  heard  the  breath  that  she  had  again  held  in  escape 
softly,  little  by  little  from  her  bosom  which  was  pressed 
against  the  bedclothes.  She  was  still  kneeling  where  he 
had  dragged  her  forward.  It  was  an  attitude  of  prayer. 
Her  whole  body  seemed  to  beseech  him.  Yet,  though  he 
saw  this,  he  was  not  moved  by  it,  except  to  extra  caution. 
She  could  not  speak  at  once,  so  he  spoke  again  himself. 
Each  word  that  he  uttered  calmed  him.  The  naturalness 
of  his  assumed  tone  reassured  him  as  it  fell  upon  his  own 
ear.  As  he  would  have  said  of  another,  he  was  "doing  it 
damned  well." 

"I  hope,  since  you  adopted  such  radical  measures,"  he 
remarked  coldly,  "that  you  at  least  chose  a  decent  speci 
men.  Was  it  by  any  chance  my  mother's  little  medical 
poodle?" 

' '  No — Cecil.   Doctor  Hopkins  came  afterwards,  but ' ' 

"What!  you  had  two  of  those  vermin  in  my  house  yes 
terday?" 

There  was  rage  in  his  eyes  again.  Quickly  he  veiled 
them. 

"This  is  a  bit  overwhelming,  you  must  admit,"  he  said 
in  a  tired  voice.  Then  he  asked :  ' '  Who  was  the  other 
luminary  of  hypocrisy  ? ' ' 

"It  was  Doctor  Carfew,  Cecil — Algernon  Carfew." 

Chesney's  worst  fears  were  realised.  If  this  man  had 
seen  him,  he  knew.  A  dark,  smothering  fear  rushed  over 
him — he  was  a  brave  man,  but  this  vague,  shadowy  yet 
poignant  terror  seemed  to  turn  his  very  vitals  to  water. 
He  was  as  afraid  of  the  fancied  image  of  this  accursedly 
knowing  physician  as  a  condemned  lout  of  the  headsman. 
It  seemed  to  him,  lying  there,  a  strong  man,  master  of  his 
own  house,  the  free-born  citizen  of  a  great  Empire,  that 
he  was  yet  but  a  little  doll  of  pith  in  the  clutches  of  this 
grim,  devilishly  well-informed  scientist.  The  medical  pro 
fession  took  suddenly  a  symbolic  form  in  his  mind — it 
bulked  before  him  like  a  huge,  black  Octopus  heaving  up 
from  that  shadowy  sea  of  dread  in  which  he  was  sinking. 
One  of  the  vast  tentacles  had  gripped  him — was  dragging 
him  down — down.  It  was  with  amazement  that  he  heard 
his  own  voice  demanding  in  icy  composure : 

"And  the  verdict  of  this  learned  gentleman?" 

He  had  closed  his  eyes  again  as  though  bored  and  wear 
ied  by  the  subject.  He  felt  one  of  Sophy's  soft,  bare  arms 


90  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

go  round  his  neck.  Her  hair  brushed  his  lips  as  she  laid 
her  head  upon  his  breast.  Her  face  was  hidden  from  him. 
He  heard  her  impassioned  whisper: 

"Cecil — don't,  don't  shut  me  out!  Let  me  share  it.  I 
know — I  know!" 

XVIII 

THE  moods  of  a  morphinomaniac  are  very  inconsistent. 
There  were  times  when  Cecil  Chesney  agonised  over  this 
degrading  vice  which  was  slowly  sapping  his  manhood  and 
self-respect,  which  was  turning  him  into  a  bowelless  egoist. 
Yes,  at  times,  so  great  was  his  suffering  over  his  own  abase 
ment  that  he  had  frequently  thought  of  self-destruction  as 
a  means  of  escape  from  the  dark  coil.  These  were  during 
the  luridly  lucid  moments  which  come  to  fine  natures  in 
such  thrall — the  moments  when  they  see  themselves  as  they 
are — when  they  say,  with  appalled  realisation :  "I  am  a 
morphinomaniac.  I  would  sacrifice  the  happiness  of  my 
nearest  and  dearest  for  a  dose  of  the  terrible  stuff  when 
the  horror  of  lacking  it  is  upon  me."  But  these  moods 
are  varied  by  others,  singularly  callous,  when  all  humanity 
seems  to  have  ebbed  from  the  nature,  and  the  formula  of 
the  victim's  faith  might  be  a  paraphrase  of  that  of  the 
Moslem:  "There  is  no  God  but  Morphia  and  I  am  its 
prophet."  This  was  Chesney 's  mood  to-night.  So  far 
from  being  touched  by  Sophy's  sudden,  almost  childlike 
appeal,  he  felt  intensely  irritated  by  it.  It  was  all  that  he 
could  do  not  to  push  away  her  head  roughly  from  his 
breast.  The  tender,  pleading  tone  of  her  voice  was  insuf 
ferably  annoying  to  him. 

He  controlled  himself  rigidly,  however,  merely  saying  in 
a  hard  voice,  without  touching  her,  "I  could  understand 
you  better  if  you  didn't  bury  your  mouth  in  my  chest.  I 
shall  be  interested  to  hear  what  it  is  that  you  'know.'  " 

Sophy  drew  back  without  any  anger.  She  knew  his  hard 
voice,  his  "metal  voice"  she  was  used  to  call  it.  She  re 
alised  sadly  that  she  had  made  a  mistake  in  appealing  to 
him.  But  she  would  not  let  him  hurt  her  or  make  her 
angry  now.  She  turned  and  sat  quietly  in  the  chair  again 
— looking  down  at  her  wedding  ring — it  seemed  to  fasci 
nate  her  eyes  in  those  days.  It  was  so  long  before  she 
spoke  that  he  said  impatiently: 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  91 

"Well — am  I  not  to  share  this  evidently  interesting 
knowledge  of  yours?" 

She  looked  at  him  honestly,  trying  to  keep  anything  like 
sentiment  from  her  eyes  and  voice. 

' '  You  make  it  so  hard — for  us  both,  Cecil, ' '  she  said. 

' '  Pray  what  do  I  make  hard  ? ' ' 

" The  truth." 

' '  '  What  is  truth  ? '  said  doubting  Pilate.  Can  it  be  that 
you  have  found  out?  You  interest  me." 

Sophy  hesitated.  How  was  she  to  take  him?  Was  he 
trying  to  make  her  put  it  into  brutally  plain  words  ?  Would 
he  prefer  that?  Or  was  he  only  waiting  to  launch  abuse 
at  her  in  case  she  did  ?  As  she  sat  anxiously  pondering,  one 
of  those  sudden  changes  of  mood  took  place  in  Chesney, 
that  startle  even  the  slaves  of  morphia  themselves.  In  a 
flash — in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  he  seemed  to  see  a  new 
course  open  before  him — a  course  that  would  save  him 
from  the  powers  of  darkness  as  represented  in  his  dis 
torted  mind  by  the  medical  profession.  Holding  out  his 
hand,  he  said  in  quite  a  different  voice,  a  very  gentle  one 
indeed : 

''Come  here,  Sophy." 

A  wondering  look  stole  over  her  face.  She  went  to  him 
almost  timidly,  seated  herself  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  and 
put  her  hand  in  his. 

"See  here,  my  child,"  said  he,  still  in  that  kind,  mod 
erate  voice.  "Whatever  else  you  have  in  mind,  don't  for 
get  that  I'm  a  rather  ill  man." 

"I  don't  ...  I  don't  .  .  .  not  for  a  moment." 

"And  you  must  bear  with  me  if  I  say  things  a  bit 
lamely." 

"Say  anything  ..."  she  began  eagerly,  then  restrained 
herself.  "Say  anything,"  she  repeated  more  soberly. 

"Very  well,  then.  But  please  don't  exclaim  or  get  emo 
tional,  will  you?  My  head's  beastly  tired.  I've  had  rather 
a  tight  squeak  of  it,  Gaynor  tells  me." 

"Yes — you  were  very,  very  ill." 

Her  lip  quivered.  She  pressed  his  hand  nervously,  then 
loosened  her  fingers  as  though  afraid  of  irritating  him. 
But  he  returned  the  pressure  kindly.  He  was  so  absorbed 
in  the  part  he  had  finally  chosen  that  he  almost  deceived 
himself  with  his  fine  acting — as  some  actors  shed  real  tears 
in  moving  roles — almost  believed  that  he  really  felt  kindly 


92  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

to  her,  and  was  going  to  treat  her  with  a  noble  candour. 

"Well,  then,  Daphne,  dear,  I  can  guess  what  you  mean 
when  you  say  you  'know/  I  guessed  all  the  time,  only 
one  is  not  always  rational  when  one  is  ill,  and  this  doctor 
business  enraged  me.  I  confess  it  frankly.  What  you 
'know' — what  you  have  found  out,  is  that  I  take  morphine, 
is  it  not?" 

He  was  looking  at  her  keenly.  The  blood  seemed  to  beat 
hotly  back  on  her  heart,  then  fly  in  a  jet  to  her  startled 
face.  Tears  came  into  her  eyes.  She  bit  her  lip  fiercely  in 
her  effort  not  to  show  her  emotion.  It  was  so  splendid  of 
him — so  deeply,  pathetically  moving,  to  hear  him  thus 
calmly  and  honestly  name  the  dreadful  thing.  She  could 
not  help  it.  She  lifted  the  great  hand  and  pressed  her 
lips  to  it.  This  soft  touch  almost  broke  Chesney's  strong 
self-control.  Indirectly  she  was  making  him  lie,  and  he 
hated  her  for  it — he  really  hated  her  at  that  moment.  He 
could  have  struck  her  with  pleasure.  "Sweet  character  I 
am,"  he  thought  savagely;  "among  other  things  I've  got 
a  bit  of  Bill  Sykes  in  me,  too,  it  seems."  He  closed  his 
eyes  again  to  veil  this  violent  impulse.  Sophy  noticed  for 
the  first  time  that  evening  this  trick  of  closing  his  eyes, 
which  grew  on  him  so  rapidly  from  that  time.  It  took  him 
four  or  five  minutes  to  regain  the  atmosphere  of  the  part 
which  he  had  chosen.  When  he  spoke  again,  it  was  in  that 
same  mild,  rather  melancholy  voice  that  had  so  touched 
her. 

"My  dear  Daphne,"  he  said,  "I  suppose  there's  a  pinch 
of  cowardice  in  us  all — tucked  away  in  some  chink  of  our 
charming  human  nature.  Morphine  has  brought  out  this 
in  me.  I " 

"Oh,  no,  Cecil!    No— *M>/" 

Her  voice  was  beautifully  fervent.  He  hurried  on.  She 
must  not  shatter  his  present  mood  again. 

' '  Often  I  've  thought :  '  Shall  I  tell  her  ?  Shall  I  ask  her 
help?  She's  a  brave,  loyal  thing.  She'll  stand  by  me — 
even  through  this.'  ' 

"Oh,  I  would  have!    I  will!" 

"But  then  again  I  thought:  'No — how  can  I  risk  her 
contempt — her  misunderstanding  ?  How  can  I  deliberately 
strike  such  a  blow  to  her  ignorant  happiness?'  So  I  de 
termined  to  struggle  along  as  best  I  could.  I've  fought 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  93 

the  damnable  thing,  Sophy — believe  me  or  not  as  you  will." 

The  cunning  mixture  of  truth  and  falsehood  in  what  he 
had  been  saying  lent  it  somehow  an  impression  of  extraor 
dinary  sincerity.  The  bald,  dark  truth  would  not  have 
carried  such  conviction  to  Sophy 's  heart.  She  cried  to  him 
piteously,  struggling  to  keep  back  the  tears  of  anguished 
compassion  and  renewed  affection: 

"Oh,  don't  say  such  things  to  me!  I  do  believe  you!  I 
do !  with  all  my  heart,  with  all  my  soul ! ' ' 

Ferociously  sarcastic,  Chesney  completed  to  himself  her 
unconscious  quotation:  "With  all  my  mind,  and  with  all 
my  body. ' '  Why  did  she  not  gush  it  all  over  him  ?  he  de 
manded  angrily  to  himself.  What  fools  women  were  after 
all!  One  had  only  to  lie  cleverly  to  them  and  forthwith 
they  fell  flat  in  fits  of  hero-worship.  Had  he  honoured  her 
with  the  truth,  she  would  have  turned  on  him  in  contempt. 
So  little  did  he  know  her. 

"Then,  Daphne,  perhaps  Chance  is  a  kindly  god  after 
all.  This  chance  collapse  of  mine  has  broken  down  bar 
riers  that  I  might  never  have  climbed  by  myself. ' ' 

He  had  been  sipping  water  off  and  on  while  he  talked. 
It  was  nauseously  bitter  to  him,  but  with  that  fine  instinct 
for  thoroughness  in  his  acting,  he  had  instinctively  denied 
himself  the  flat  champagne,  which  would  have  been  far 
more  palatable  to  his  tongue  so  rough  with  morphia.  It 
occurred  to  him  also  that  gain  might  be  made  of  this  small 
sacrifice.  He  could  ask  later  for  a  fresh  glass  of  wine 
without  seeming  unduly  eager.  And  it  was  impossible  for 
him  to  talk  at  any  length  without  some  liquid  to  moisten 
the  dry  mucous  membranes  of  his  mouth. 

"You  see,"  he  went  on,  "one  needs  strong  assistance  in 
shaking  off  a  thing  like  this.  I've  come  to  that,  Daphne. 
Gaynor  has  been  a  devilish  good  sort  through  it  all,  but 
one  ally  isn't  enough.  A  Triple  Alliance" — he  smiled  at 
her — "is  what  is  needed  for  this  war." 

Sophy  felt  dazed  with  gladness.  Then  shame  seized  her 
as  she  thought  that  she  might  have  "deserted" — might 
have  missed  this  wonderful  moment,  so  far  greater  than 
mere  happiness. 

"Do  you  mean  that  you  will  let  me  help  you,  Cecil? 
That  you  will  let  me  fight — it — with  you?" 

"What  else  could  I  mean?" 


94  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

She  was  speechless.  She  hardly  dared  to  breathe.  She 
might  wake  up. 

' '  And — and  you  will — follow  out  the — instructions  ? ' ' 

Chesney's  eyebrows  flicked  together  for  an  instant,  then 
smoothed  again. 

"Whose  instructions?"  he  asked  calmly. 

She  just  paused,  then  said  timidly : 

"Dr.  Carfew's,  Cecil." 

He  felt  the  subdued  billow  of  his  rage  heave  again.  It 
calmed  under  his  fierce  resolve. 

"What  were  they?"  he  asked. 

She  explained,  almost  whispering  in  her  shyness  and 
anxiety  at  having  to  name  such  things  to  him. 

The  wave  rose  again.    He  rode  it  with  a  short  laugh. 

"So  I'm  to  be  fattened  like  a  holiday  ox?"  he  said. 
"Incarcerated  and  made  plump  for  Virtue's  altar?" 

He  laughed  again,  closing  his  eyes.  When  he  opened 
them  he  looked  grave  and  very  serious. 

"Sophy,"  he  said,  "with  the  dilemma  comes  generally 
a  way  of  escape  for  the  imaginative. ' '  ( How  strange !  he 
was  paraphrasing  the  very  quotation  that  Father  Raphael 
had  made  to  her  that  morning.  She  listened  breathlessly.) 
"I  confess  frankly  that  I  would  not  submit  for  a  moment 
to  this  sanatorium  idea.  I  know  myself  too  well.  I  should 
enter  it  a  temporary  invalid  and  leave  it  a  confirmed  luna 
tic."  (This  phrase  pleased  him  very  much,  especially 
when  he  saw  by  her  expression  that  it  had  impressed  her.) 
"I  am  not  of  the  stuff  from  which  'good  patients'  are 
made.  I  should  probably  strangle  my  attendants  and  take 
French  leave  through  a  window.  But" — he  looked  at  her 
consideringly — "I  am  perfectly  willing  to  put  myself  in 
your  hands,  and  Gaynor's — you  have  talked  with  Gaynor, 
I  suppose?" 

He  put  this  last  question  casually  but  with  shrewd  in 
tent.  Sophy's  caution  was  at  once  alert.  She  had  deter 
mined  that  he  should  have  no  least  cause  of  anger  against 
Gaynor. 

"It  was  hard  to  get  Gaynor  to  say  anything,  Cecil.  He 
is  so  loyal.  Only  when  the  doctor  had  told  me  everything, 
did  he  so  much  as  admit,  even  by  a  look,  that  there  was — 
was  anything  of  this  kind.  I  had  to  press  him  hard,  Cecil, 
for  the  barest  facts.  It  was  evidently  real  suffering  for 
him  to  answer  me.  He  had  to  answer  me,  you  know.  His 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  95 

very  affection  for  you  made  him  do  that,  when — when  he 
saw  how  much  I  wanted  to  help  you,  too — that  I  was  not — 
judging." 

Chesney  smiled  rather  drily,  closing  his  eyes.  "I  see 
that  your  feeling  towards  Gaynor  has  suffered  a  'sea 
change, '  "  he  said.  ' '  There 's  something  '  rare  and  strange ' 
about  it  now." 

' '  No,  Cecil, ' '  she  said  warmly.  ' '  How  could  it  be  strange 
that  I  feel  grateful  and  appreciative  towards  a  man  who 
has  been  so  faithful  to  you?" 

"  'II  y  a  des  fagots  et  des  fagots,'  "  he  murmured  lan 
guidly.  "  There  is  one  glory  of  the  moon  of  faithfulness 
and  another  of  the  sun." 

"How  do  you  mean,  Cecil?"  She  felt  suddenly  very 
anxious. 

' '  Oh,  nothing.  Merely  that  you  and  Gaynor  are  the  sun 
and  moon  in  the  heavens  of  loyalty. ' ' 

"I'm  glad  that  you're  not  vexed  with  the  poor  fellow 
because — because  he  didn't  lie,"  she  ventured  gently. 

"Oh,  no  ...  no  ..."  he  moved  his  hand,  dismissing 
the  subject.  "  'Faithful  are  the  wounds  of  a  friend.'  ' 

Something  in  his  tone  still  made  her  anxious,  but  his  face 
was  so  placid  that  she  took  comfort  from  it.  She  waited  a 
moment,  then  said: 

' '  Do  you  mean,  dear,  that  you  will  let  us  make  a  ...  a 
regime  for  you,  on  the  lines  that  .  .  .  that  were  sug 
gested?" 

"Why — what  else?"  said  Chesney,  with  a  sort  of  in 
dulgent  loftiness.  "My  admission  could  hardly  have  been 
worth  while  otherwise — could  it?" 

"No— that's  true,"  she  said  joyfully.  "Oh,  Cecil!" 
She  sat  looking  at  him  through  tears  of  gratitude.  She 
could  not  keep  these  tears  from  starting,  but  she  managed 
to  hold  them  within  her  eyelids. 

"There,  there!"  he  said  nervously.  "You're  a  dear 
thing — but  don 't  make  a  fuss. ' ' 

"Oh,  no — I  won't  indeed.    I  feel  so  quiet — so  happy." 

She  paused,  gathering  composure. 

"And  ...  in  case  the  .  .  .  the  constant  care  will  be 
more  than  Gaynor  and  I  can  do  properly  .  .  .  you'll  let 
me  engage  a  nurse — won 't  you  ? ' ' 

That  dark  wave  rose  again.  Again  he  surmounted  it, 
thinking  in  those  lightning  bright  and  quick  flashes.  If 


96  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

he  objected  it  would  look  odd.  Besides  he  had  not  accom 
plished  all  that  he  desired.  He  wished  it  firmly  fixed  that 
Carfew  should  not  be  put  in  charge.  By  concessions  on  his 
part  he  could  demand  concessions  on  hers. 

"See  here,  Sophy,"  he  said,  in  a  reasonable,  practical 
voice.  ' '  I  am  willing,  as  I  said,  to  put  myself  in  your  and 
Gaynor's  hands.  Having  agreed  to  this,  I  think  I  have  a 
right  to  make  certain  conditions,  have  I  not?" 

"Yes,  Cecil — of  course."    But  her  high  mood  sank. 

"Then  here  are  my  conditions — very  mild  ones  I  think 
you  will  admit.  I  dislike  the  idea  of  this  swaggering, 
Bully-boy  of  a  medical  Bashaw — this  Carfew  chap.  I'll 
none  of  him.  You  may  follow  out  his  ideas  if  you  like — 
but  come  in  contact  with  him  personally  or  indirectly  I 
will  not.  From  what  I  have  heard  of  him  I  consider  him 
more  or  less  of  a  Charlatan — but  whether  he  is  or  not — I 
flatly  refuse  to  have  him  attend  me.  On  the  other  hand, 
I  will  put  up  with  a  nurse,  provided  it's  not  a  man-nurse. 
I  should  throttle  him  within  two  seconds  of  his  arrival. 
Women  nurses  are  rather  soothing  as  a  rule.  Then,  I'm 
perfectly  willing  to  go  to  Dynehurst — I'd  like  to,  in  fact. 

I'm  sick  of  this  b town.  Also  I'm  quite  willing  to 

endure  the  ministrations  of  the  Mater's  trained  poodles — 
the  town  poodle  and  the  country  poodle  both.  They're 
clever  enough  chaps,  though  a  bit  under  hack  to  the  old 
lady. ' '  A  sudden  inspiration  came  to  him  as  he  was  speak 
ing.  "To  prove  that  I  am  sincere,"  he  concluded,  "I  will 
take  you  and  Gaynor  wholly  into  my  confidence." 

He  pressed  the  button  of  the  electric  bell  at  his  bedside. 
Gaynor  appeared  almost  instantly.  The  man  was  very 
pale  and  his  eyes  had  a  strained,  apprehensive  look. 

"Gaynor,"  said  Cecil  directly,  "you've  proved  yourself 
an  excellent  servant.  You  have  done  quite  right.  Mrs. 
Chesney  and  I  have  talked  my  case  over  thoroughly.  I 
realise  that  this  drug  has  gained  an  undue  hold  on  me — 
that  it  is  an  insidious  enemy — and  causes  one  to  deceive 
oneself — I  therefore  place  myself  in  Mrs.  Chesney 's  charge. 
You  will  assist  her  in  every  way  in  your  power.  I  now 
wish  to  give  to  Mrs.  Chesney,  in  your  presence,  my  own 
private  hypodermic  syringe.  You  will  find  it  in  my  locked 
letter-case.  Here  is  the  key." 

He  took  it  from  under  the  pillow,  and  held  it  out  to 
Gaynor.  The  man's  face  was  livid.  He  experienced  acute 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  97 

pain,  in  thus  being  forced  to  listen  to  his  master's  calm 
confession  of  duplicity  in  the  presence  of  another.  He  un 
locked  the  letter-case  obediently  and  took  out  the  little 
aluminum  case.  His  hands  were  shaking. 

"Give  it  to  Mrs.  Chesney,  please." 

Sophy  also  was  trembling  and  very  pale. 

Chesney  lay  back  upon  his  pillows  watching  them  with 
the  sketch  of  a  queer  smile  about  his  mouth.  He  himself 
broke  the  strained  silence. 

"And  now,  Gaynor, "  said  he,  "be  so  kind  as  to  take 
away  this  stuff  and  bring  me  a  fresh  glass  of  wine." 

Gaynor  moved  to  the  bedside  as  in  a  daze.  Then  his  face 
worked  suddenly. 

' '  Oh  .  .  .  sir ! "  he  said  in  a  husky  whisper. 

' '  There,  that  will  do !  I  'd  like  to  be  alone  for  a  bit.  I  'm 
sure  you'll  excuse  me,  Sophy." 

She  went  and  kissed  him  in  silence.  Gaynor  had  left  the 
room  at  once,  his  head  hung  low  on  his  breast.  Sophy  fol 
lowed  quickly. 

When  the  door  was  shut,  a  convulsed  look  broke  the  as 
sumed  calm  on  Chesney 's  face. 

"Damn  it!"  he  choked,  clenching  his  fist  at  the  wall 
before  him.  ' '  Damnation !  I  Ve  lied  to  a  man — and  he 
believes  me!" 

Somehow,  what  had  been  almost  an  amusing  game  when 
played  for  Sophy's  benefit,  turned  to  stark  humiliation 
when  practised  on  another  man. 

He  slipped  from  the  bed  and,  striding  to  the  door  in  his 
bare  feet,  snapped  the  lock.  Then  reaching  his  bed  again, 
thrust  his  arm  far  in  between  the  mattresses.  He  drew 
out  a  brand-new  syringe — opened  it  deftly,  fitted  on  the 
needle — took  a  spoon  from  a  little  drawer  in  the  table. 
Heated  water  in  it  over  the  lamp,  dissolved  in  it  a  half- 
grain  tablet  of  morphia  (he  was  afraid  to  take  a  larger 
dose  lest  it  should  prove  noticeable) — stripped  up  the  sleeve 
from  his  powerful  forearm  all  covered  with  purplish  knots, 
and  drove  the  little  needle  home  in  his  flesh,  holding  the 
syringe  firmly  in  place  by  its  curved,  steel  horns,  so  like 
the  antennae  of  some  poisonous  insect.  Then  he  hid  all 
away  again — unlocked  the  door,  and  slipped  quickly  inta 
bed. 

When  Gaynor  arrived  a  moment  later,  his  master  seemed 
to  be  dozing. 


98  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

The  valet  stood  looking  down  on  him  with  a  shy  expres 
sion  of  affection  and  relief. 

"Thank  God,"  the  servant's  heart  was  saying;  "thank 
God — he 's  acted  like  a  man ! ' ' 


XIX 

LADY  WYCIICOTE  came  again  next  morning  about  ten 
o'clock.  She  seemed  much  mollified  by  Sophy's  account  of 
the  arrangement  that  had  been  entered  into — showed  a 
marked  inclination  to  assume  more  amicable  relations  with 
her  daughter-in-law. 

"I  knew  that  he  would  act  reasonably  when  things  were 
put  clearly  before  him.  lie  is  erratic — but  a  most  able 
creature.  As  soon  as  he  realised  the  gravity  of  the  situa 
tion  I  was  convinced  that  he  would  act  with  me — with  us 
— for  his  own  benefit. ' ' 

"Yes — you  \vere  right — you  knew  him  better  than  I 
did,"  said  Sophy  with  generous  humility.  She,  too,  felt 
softened  towards  her  mother-in-law  because  her  maternal 
intuition  had  been  right,  when  she,  Sophy,  as  a  wife,  had 
doubted. 

"Very  nice  of  you  to  admit  it,  I'm  sure,"  said  Lady 
Wychcote  affably.  She  was  so  highly  pleased  that  all  her 
ideas  were  by  way  of  being  carried  out,  that  she  actually 
asked  to  see  Bobby.  This  was  a  wonderful  condescension, 
for  from  the  day  of  his  birth  she  seemed  scarcely  to  have 
been  aware  of  his  existence. 

"I  will  go  to  the  nursery  if  you  like,"  she  said,  as  it 
were  a  Queen  saying  with  royal  affectation  of  equality: 
"See,  I  am  even  prepared  to  descend  from  my  dais  and 
walk  on  a  level  with  you. ' ' 

"Thanks — but  there's  no  need,"  said  Sophy.  "I  will 
have  him  brought  here." 

Lady  Wychcote  had  not  seen  the  child,  except  at  a  dis 
tance,  since  he  could  walk  and  talk.  As  his  nurse  set  him 
upon  his  feet,  and  his  sturdy  little  figure  came  towards  her, 
strutting  mannishly,  serious  but  unafraid,  something 
stirred  in  her  chilly  breast — something  not  exactly  warm 
but  pungent.  The  child  had  the  look  of  her  own  family. 
It  had  been  a  family  noted  for  its  statesmen.  What  pos 
sibilities  might  not  lie  hid  in  that  small,  firm  breast  under 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  99 

its  ruffled  collar?  It  came  over  her  in  a  sudden  tingling 
wave  of  resuscitated  hope  and  fact  abruptly  realised,  that 
in  case  of  Gerald's  dying  childless — this  child  would  be 
heir  to  the  title.  He  was  a  Chesney  after  all.  He  had  the 
name,  and  her  own  blood  in  his  veins.  The  mother  was 
only  the  ' '  incalculable  quantity ' '  in  the  sum  of  this  higher 
spiritual  mathematics.  Inconsistently,  as  with  all  tyrants, 
her  mind  whirled  about,  accepting  as  a  pleasing  possibility 
what  had  until  then  only  occurred  to  her  as  an  insufferable 
one — a  weapon  with  which  to  goad  Gerald,  when  his  dis 
inclination  to  marry  put  her  beyond  all  patience.  Now  as 
she  looked  at  Bobby,  who  had  gone  straight  to  his  mother 's 
knee,  and  stood  biting  his  small  fist,  and  regarding  her 
solemnly  out  of  grey,  noncommittal  eyes,  she  thought, 
"Why  not?  He  is  my  grandchild  after  all."  She  even 
spoke  her  thought  aloud. 

"Has  it  ever  occurred  to  you  that  that  child  may  be 
Lord  Wychcote  some  day,  in  case  Gerald  dies  unmarried  ? ' ' 
she  asked. 

It  had  occurred  to  Sophy,  for  Cecil  had  spoken  once  or 
twice  of  such  a  possibility — but  he  had  spoken  of  it  grum- 
blingly. 

"If  that  duffer  Gerald  dies  without  begetting  a  proper 
little  Conservative, ' '  he  had  said,  ' '  our  little  chap 's  chances 
may  be  knocked  out,  by  a  seat  in  the  Lords.  Nice  country 
this — where  a  political  career  can  be  smashed  to  smither 
eens  by  having  to  wear  a  bally  title  whether  you  will  or 
no." 

It  never  seemed  to  cross  his  mind  that  Bobby  might  de 
sire  a  career  other  than  political — or  granting  that  he 
should  not,  that  by  a  sort  of  figurative  reversion  of  species, 
he  might  become  a  Unionist  instead  of  a  Liberal. 

But  Sophy  did  not  have  political  ambitions  for  her  son. 
She  would  rather  have  seen  him  a  great  artist  of  some  sort 
— the  great  poet  of  his  day.  In  her  marriage  seemed  to 
have  quenched  the  spark  of  mental  creation.  It  was  a  deep 
grief  to  her  that  she  had  felt  no  real  desire  to  write  since 
becoming  Chesney 's  wife.  Only  that  saddest  of  all  emo 
tions — the  desire  to  desire.  It  was  as  if  mocking,  satyr- 
hoofs  had  trampled  her  mind's  garden.  The  fine  poetry  of 
her  imaginative  mood  had  not  been  able  to  withstand  the 
shocks  of  such  a  marriage  as  hers.  Sometimes  she  had  felt 
bitterly,  as  though  there  were  the  print  of  a  goat's  hoof 


100  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

on  her  heart  and  that  it  had  filled  slowly  with  blood.  It 
was  this  scar  that  burnt  when  she  was  unhappy. 

"Oh,  Gerald  is  sure  to  marry,"  she  now  said  hastily. 
"He  was  so  much  better  when  I  saw  him  in  April." 

"Pf !  He  goes  up  and  down.  There's  no  counting  on 
him, "  said  his  mother  bitterly.  "Is  your  boy  strong?  He 
looks  very  healthy." 

"He's  splendidly  strong, "  said  Sophy  proudly.  "He's 
never  had  an  ill  day  in  his  life." 

She  gathered  the  boy  close  to  her  jealously.  There  was 
such  a  greedy,  appraising  look  in  Lady  Wychcote's  eyes. 
She  might  have  been  a  civilised  ogress,  estimating  from 
long  habit  the  tender  flesh  of  a  child. 

"Is  he  clever?    Quick?" 

"Very,"  said  Sophy  briefly. 

"I  hope  you  won't  let  Cecil  instil  his  wretched  Kadical 
principles  into  the  boy 's  mind  before  he 's  able  to  think  for 
himself." 

"He  thinks  for  himself  already,"  said  Sophy,  with  a 
slight  smile. 

"Well — who  knows?  We  may  yet  give  another  famous 
man  to  the  Conservative  cause,"  said  Lady  Wychcote, 
still  gazing  at  Bobby.  Then  she  said  to  him : 

"Come  to  your  grandmother,  child." 

Sophy  impelled  him  forward,  and  he  went  slowly  but 
steadily,  and  stood  before  the  young-old  lady,  his  hands 
behind  him,  his  little  stomach  thrust  forward.  It  was  the 
true  statesman's  attitude.  But  Bobby  was  only  wondering 
why  the  lady  had  black  specks  all  over  her  face,  and 
whether  the  bird  on  her  brown  velvet  hat  could  cry  ' '  cuck 
oo"  like  the  one  in  the  nursery  clock. 

And  to  Sophy  there  came  the  words  of  Constance : 

' '  Do,  child,  go  to  it '  grandam,  child : 
Give  grandam  kingdom,  and  it'  grandam  will 
Give  it  a  plum,  a  cherry,  and  a  fig. ' ' 

For  it  galled  her  that  Lady  Wychcote  should  never  have 
shown  the  least  interest  in  the  boy,  until  it  had  occurred 
to  her  that  some  day  he  might  serve  her  ambition. 

Chesney  saw  his  mother  for  a  few  minutes  before  she 
went.  He  was  languid  but  apparently  quite  normal.  He 
exaggerated  this  languor,  as  later  on  he  exaggerated  a  cer 
tain  nervousness  consequent  on  the  fact  that  he  dared  not 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  101 

take  as  much  morphia  as  he  really  wanted,  fearing  that 
Gaynor,  at  least,  might  suspect  something,  and  well  aware 
that  a  man  under  reduced  doses  of  the  drug  shows  symp 
toms  of  extreme  weakness  and  restlessness.  When  she 
asked  if  he  would  see  Craig  Hopkins  that  afternoon,  he 
replied  good-humouredly : 

"Bring  in  the  performing  poodles  as  soon  as  you  like. 
Since  I'm  in  for  it,  the  show  might  as  well  begin 
promptly. ' ' 

"Cecil  is  most  reasonable — I  did  not  hope  as  much  as 
this,"  she  told  Sophy.  Then  she  took  her  departure, 
adding : 

"And  now  I  must  set  the  Town  talking  the  way  we 
wish." 

It  had  been  agreed  between  her  and  Sophy  that  she 
should  spread  reports  to  the  effect  that  Cecil  was  suffering 
from,  an  attack  of  inflammation  of  the  brain.  She  had 
submitted  this  idea  to  Dr.  Hopkins  yesterday,  and  he  had 
agreed  that  it  was  wise  and  permissible  under  the  circum 
stances. 

Lady  "Wychcote  was  a  clever  woman.  She  set  this  report 
going  with  such  skill  and  so  apt  a  measure  of  detail  that 
even  the  sceptical  Olive  Arundel  was  quite  taken  in  by  it. 
The  people  who  chiefly  mattered,  and  those  who  had  been 
present  at  the  painful  dinner,  were  only  too  glad  to  accept 
such  a  solution  of  the  disgraceful  scene.  Only  Oswald 
Tyne  smiled  behind  Lady  Wychcote 's  well-preserved  and 
still  girlish  back,  his  mocking,  unctuous  smile,  and  said : 
"I  would  rather  dream  of  the  degrading  spectacle  of  a 
British  plum-pudding  served  in  flames  at  an  Athenian 
banquet  than  see  again  at  a  London  feast  the  brain  of  an 
Englishman  thus  ignited.  Both  are  too  massive  to  burn 
gracefully.  But  the  plum-pudding  has  a  lightness — a  deli 
cacy — a  wholesomeness — which  the  British  cerebrum  even 
in  flames  can  never  accomplish." 

Olive,  to  whom  Tyne  made  these  remarks,  exclaimed, 
much  vexed : 

"Oswald!  You  are  ~bwutal.  You  are  never  funny  when 
you  are  bwutal. " 

"On  the  contrary,"  he  assured  her  gravely,  "I  am  a 
Celt.  I  am  always  funny  when  I  am  brutal.  Your  Eng 
lishman,  now,  is  always  brutal  when  he  is  funny." 

"Oh,  don't  try  to  be  witty  with  every  breath!"  she 


102  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

cried  crossly.  "I  think  it  heartless  of  you,  and  that  poor 
man  was  in  danger  of  his  life  at  the  very  moment  he  said 
that  awful  thing!" 

' '  Indeed  he  was, ' '  said  Tyne  earnestly.  ' '  I  know  that  I 
had  clutched  my  knife  with  red  slaughter  hissing  at  my 
ear.  Several  men  who  were  present  have  confessed  the 
same  thing  to  me.  The  vice  of  self-control  was  all  that 
restrained  us." 

"At  any  rate,"  she  said  earnestly,  seeing  that  it  was 
hopeless  to  get  at  his  serious  side  through  sympathy  for 
Cecil,  "at  any  rate,  you  like  poor  dear  Sophy,  don't  you?" 

"Yes,  I  burn  discreetly  'with  a  hard,  gem-like  name'  for 
her." 

"You  wouldn't  want  to  hurt  her?" 

"Not  even  for  my  own  pleasure." 

"Then  don't  go  about  saying  things  about  'plum-pud 
dings'  and  Grecian  feasts  and  all  that  when  her  husband  is 
mentioned,  will  you  ?  Even  if  you  don 't  believe  he 's  ill — 
be  a  good  sort  for  Sophy's  sake,  and  pretend  to." 

' '  Pretence  is  always  lovely, ' '  said  Tyne  dreamily.  ' '  Zeus 
pretended  to  be  a  swan,  and  lo! — Artemis  and  Apollo!" 

"  I 'm  sure  you  don't  have  to  pretend  to  be  a  goose,"  said 
Olive,  out  of  patience,  and  she  walked  away  from  him, 
proudly  carrying  off  the  last  word. 

But  Tyne's  native  kindliness  outweighed  his  love  of 
drollery  this  time.  The  memory  of  Sophy's  beautiful, 
frozen  profile  as  he  had  last  seen  it,  and  which  had  re 
minded  him  of  the  drooping,  white  profile  of  the  Neapoli 
tan  Antinous,  held  him  from  further  expressing  his  doubts 
of  the  genuineness  of  Chesney's  attack.  As  for  the  others, 
they  behaved  with  discreet  and  kindly  sympathy,  and 
carriages  drew  up  often  before  the  house  in  Regent's  Park 
to  leave  cards  and  inquiries. 

Thus  the  bitterness  of  humiliation  was  lifted  from 
Sophy's  heart,  and  thus,  too,  it  came  to  pass  that  Amaldi 
could  think  of  her  again  without  that  overwhelming  surge 
of  helpless  pity,  and  fierce,  thwarted  indignation.  He  left 
cards  on  her  and  Chesney  a  few  days  later,  and  meeting 
Bobby  as  he  turned  from  the  door,  had  the  rather  bitter 
pleasure  of  holding  him  in  his  arms  for  a  moment. 

The  child  had  not  forgotten  him.  He  gazed  soberly 
into  his  eyes  for  a  moment,  then  broke  into  the  delicious 
chuckle  that  meant  delighted  affection  with  him,  and  press- 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  103 

ing  the  firm  little  fruit  of  his  fresh  cheek  to  Amaldi's, 

said: 

' '  Bobby  man !  .  .  .  Bobby  nith  man — tome  back ! ' ' 
Amaldi's  heart  glowed  and  ached.     lie  kissed  the  boy 

with  passion,  then  set  him  gently  down  and  went  away. 

lie  had  found  that  which  was  lost  to  him  even  as  he  found 

it,  and  the  world  seemed  to  him  like  a  vast  house  full  of 

vacant,  echoing  rooms. 

It  was  decided  that  Chesney  should  be  taken  to  Dyne- 
hurst  during  the  next  week.  He  affected  a  listless  apathy, 
and  seemed  not  to  care  whether  he  went  or  stayed.  Dr. 
Hopkins  expressed  himself  satisfied  with  his  condition. 
He  thought,  however,  that  the  sooner  he  could  be  moved  to 
the  country  the  better  it  would  be  for  him  in  every  way. 
He  had  written  fully  to  Dr.  Bellamy,  the  Wychcotes'  phy 
sician  at  Dynehurst.  For  Sophy  these  intervening  days 
were  peaceful  but  heavy.  She  could  not  recapture,  some 
how,  her  high  mood  of  the  evening  of  her  talk  with  Cecil. 
Things  went  along  evenly,  monotonously.  He  was  never 
either  cheerful  or  depressed — talked  little,  sometimes  locked 
his  bedroom  door  for  hours  together.  This  made  her  curi 
ously  apprehensive.  What  was  he  doing  behind  that  locked 
door?  She  felt  that  Gaynor  also  was  vaguely  uneasy  over 
this  new  phase,  but  they  did  not  mention  it  to  each  other. 
Apart  from  this  one  thing,  Cecil  was  very  reasonable — 
submitted  to  having  all  wine  withdrawn  from  his  diet ;  even 
put  up  with  having  his  cigarettes  cut  down  to  eight  a  day. 
Neither  Sophy  nor  Gaynor  suspected  for  a  moment  that  he 
had  a  third  hypodermic  syringe  in  his  possession.  With 
the  startling  and  crafty  acumen  of  the  morphinomaniac, 
he  had  secreted  it  in  the  last  place  that  they  would  have 
thought  of — namely,  in  the  same  letter-case,  of  which  now 
he  left  the  key  carelessly  on  his  dressing-table  or  the  little 
stand  by  his  bed.  Nor  did  they,  in  their  inexperience  of 
such  things,  realise  that  one  who  had  for  three  years  been 
addicted  to  the  habit,  and  who,  during  two  years  of  that 
time,  had  been  accustomed  to  large  and  constant  doses  of 
the  drug,  could  not  possibly  have  supported  its  withdrawal, 
even  gradually,  with  the  composure  shown  by  Chesney. 

Dr.  Hopkins  always  made  his  visits  about  ten  in  the 
morning ;  and,  deeply  cunning,  determined  that  no  mistake 
on  his  part  should  prevent  his  escape  from  the  town  where 


104  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

Algernon  Carfew  lived,  an  ever  present  menace,  Chesney 
refrained  from  taking  his  usual  dose  until  after  the  phy 
sician  had  seen  him.  These  occasions  of  waiting  for  Hop 
kins  to  come  and  go  were  very  painful.  Sometimes  the 
little  doctor  would  be  half  an  hour  late,  and  each  minute 
of  this  half  hour  seemed  endless  to  the  man,  fretting  with 
crawling  skin  and  muscles  spasmodically  twitching,  for  the 
calming  poison.  So  when  Hopkins  felt  his  forehead  and 
his  pulse  on  these  occasions,  he  would  find  the  one  moist 
and  the  other  feeble.  These  symptoms  were  in  accord  with 
the  therapeutics  of  the  case,  hence  the  inexperienced  doc 
tor's  satisfaction. 

But  though  Sophy  felt  saddened  by  the  way  that  Cecil 
seemed  to  keep  her  civilly  aloof,  as  though  what  he  was 
enduring  were  impossible  of  comprehension  to  her,  on  the 
other  hand  she  was  very  happy  in  her  surprise  that  this 
dreadful  and  mysterious  habit  should  prove  so  easy  to  cure. 
She  recalled  De  Quincy's  Confessions  of  an  Opium  Eater, 
and  the  agonies  that  he  described  as  accompanying  his 
efforts  to  abstain.  Morphia,  then,  must  differ  in  its  effects 
from  opium.  She  thanked  God,  in  her  ignorance,  that 
Cecil's  enemy  was  morphia  and  not  opium. 


XX 

IT  was  on  a  lovely  afternoon  that  they  left  London  for 
Durham.  A  Wednesday  had  been  chosen,  so  that  the 
usual  week-end  parties  going  to  the  country  or  returning 
from  it  might  be  avoided.  A  compartment  had  been  re 
served.  Lady  Wychcote  went  with  them,  and  Gaynor 
travelled  in  the  same  carriage  to  be  at  hand  in  case  his 
master  needed  him.  Chesney,  pale  as  always  now,  but 
quite  composed,  settled  down  with  a  copy  of  Le  Mannequin 
d' Osier.  France's  brilliant  cynicism  suited  his  present 
mood  admirably.  Now  and  then  he  glanced  out  toward 
London  as  the  train  drew  swiftly  away.  There  was  that 
subtle,  just  sketched  smile  about  his  lips  that  rested  there 
so  often  during  these  days.  He  seemed  to  be  savouring  a 
pleasant,  ironical  secret  which  he  alone  knew.  Lady  Wych 
cote  was  absorbed  in  a  novel  by  Mrs.  Humphry  Ward.  She 
liked  the  political  atmosphere  in  these  books,  though  she 
sniffed  at  the  politicians  described  in  them.  "Clockworks" 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  105 

she  called  them.  She  was  very  intolerant  of  the  achieve 
ments  of  other  women. 

Bobby  was  very  good,  playing  in  grave  silence  with  his 
red  and  white  bricks  on  the  shawl  that  Miller  had  spread 
for  him.  But  presently  he  began  to  shove  one  up  and 
down  along  the  seat  near  his  father,  saying, ' '  Choo !  Choo ! ' ' 
Sophy  lifted  him  upon  her  lap  and  began  to  tell  him  stories 
in  a  low  voice.  She  was  very  glad  to  be  thus  mechanically 
occupied.  Dynehurst  always  depressed  her.  She  felt  a 
vague,  grey  gloom  rising  about  her  at  the  thought  of  spend 
ing  several  months  there,  with  Cecil  in  this  strange,  cold, 
forbidding  mood.  She  looked  out  of  the  window  as  she 
told  the  oft-repeated  story  of  "The  Three  Bears,"  her 
subconscious  mind  attending  to  the  tale,  her  fancy  select 
ing  bits  in  flying  hedge  and  fence  that  she  would  jump 
were  she  riding  to  hounds  across  that  country.  Purposely 
she  put  serious  matters  from  her.  The  rough  music  of 
the  train  lulled  her  mind.  She  seemed  caught  up  by  the 
swift  motion,  whirled  from  the  ordinary  course  of  life. 
The  fixed  events  in  it  seemed  like  the  stations  that  they 
passed — existent  only  in  a  world  already  wheeling  back 
ward. 

By  the  time  that  Darlington  was  reached,  Bobby  had 
begun  to  grow  fretful  from  the  journey.  He  demanded 
to  be  given  the  small  engine  on  its  stone  pedestal  in  the 
station  there.  "Baby  Puff-Puff!"  he  announced.  "Bobby 
want — Bobby  want!"  Sophy  sent  Miller  into  the  next 
carriage  with  him.  She  had  seen  Chesney's  eyes  contract 
and  fix  upon  the  boy.  The  change  of  train  annoyed  him. 
Besides,  he  was  beginning  to  crave  another  dose  of  morphia. 
The  time  for  the  dose  to  be  given  by  Gaynor  had  not  yet 
come.  When  it  did  it  would  be  so  small  that  it  would 
barely  temper  the  fierce  lust  of  his  accustomed  nerves.  He 
closed  his  eyes,  frowning,  his  lip  between  his  teeth.  There 
was  a  bluish  shade  about  his  mouth.  His  eyes  looked 
sunken  thus  closed,  in  the  sidelight  from  the  carriage- 
window. 

Sophy  watched  him  anxiously.  She  saw  that  Gaynor 
also  glanced  towards  him  from  time  to  time.  Lady  \Vych- 
cote  had  dozed  off,  with  her  little  travelling-cushion  of 
green  morocco  behind  her  head.  She  slept  tightly,  as  one 
might  say,  her  eyelids  and  lips  shut  fast.  She  looked  old 
asleep.  Her  mouth  settled  and  drew  down  at  the  corners. 


106  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

Old  and  hard  and  disappointed  her  face  looked  under  its 
spotted  veil,  which  from  a  hardy  vanity  she  had  not  raised 
when  reading. 

Chesney  crossed  and  uncrossed  his  legs  several  times. 
The  hand  on  his  knee  clenched,  until  the  great  knuckles 
shone  yellow  with  little  reddish  streaks  outlining  the  bones. 
The  eyes  of  Sophy  and  Gaynor  met.  In  answer  to  her  look 
the  valet  approached,  treading  softly. 

"Do  you  not  think — considering  the  long  journey — we 
might  give  an — an  extra  dose,  Gaynor?"  she  whispered. 

"Yes,  madam.    I  was  thinking  that,"  he  whispered  back. 

Chesney 's  lids  flew  open  at  these  whisperings,  which 
seemed  to  have  reached  him  even  through  the  dull  roar  of 
the  great  wheels  underneath.  His  eyes  looked  hostile  and 
mocking.  There  was  a  sort  of  cold  hatred  in  them.  Sophy 
shivered. 

"Quick,  Gaynor,"  she  said;  "prepare  it  quickly." 

She  went  over  to  her  husband. 

"Are  you  suffering,  Cecil?"  she  asked  pityingly. 

"Like  hell,  "he  said. 

"I  was  afraid  so.  I'm  so  sorry,  dear.  Gaynor  is  going 
to  give  you  some  medicine  at  once." 

Incredulity,  then  an  almost  foolish  softness  flowed  over 
his  face. 

"By  God,  you're  an  angel!"  he  stammered.  He  seized 
her  hand  and  covered  it  with  kisses,  regardless  of  the 
valet's  presence.  This  struck  Sophy  as  very  painful.  She 
flushed,  drawing  her  hand  away,  and  saying  again : 

"  I  'm  so  sorry — I  should  have  thought  of  it  before.  Dr. 
Hopkins  warned  me  that  the  journey  might  exhaust 
you." 

"And — I  say,  Sophy — make  it  double  this  time,  will 
you?  It  will  be  no  good  else.  I'm  suffering  actual  pain, 
as  well  as  from  the  lack  of  the  damned  stuff.  The  usual 
thing  won't  help  me — not  the  least." 

Sophy  hesitated.  She  glanced  towards  Gaynor.  He  was 
holding  a  spoon  filled  with  water  from  a  little  flask  over 
the  flame  of  a  spirit  lamp.  He  was  absorbed  in  the  deli 
cate  task  and  did  not  see  her  look.  She  glanced  back,  still 
doubtful,  to  her  husband.  The  expression  of  hatred  had 
again  gathered  in  his  eyes.  He  closed  them,  trying  to 
smile.  This  smile  was  like  a  grimace  of  pain  and  anger. 
Sophy  went  quickly  over  to  Gaynor. 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  107 

"He  seems  very  ill,"  she  murmured.  "Might  not  a 
little  larger  dose  than  usual  be  better?" 

Gaynor  glanced,  also,  at  his  master.    Then  he  said : 

' '  Yes,  I  think  in  this  instance  it  will  be  better,  madam. ' ' 

He  dissolved  a  half-grain  of  morphia,  drew  it  up  into 
the  little  glass  syringe,  and  took  it  over  to  his  master. 
Chesney  had  confessed  to  taking  six  grains  a  day.  They 
had  cut  this  down  to  half  in  the  past  fortnight.  Every  four 
hours  now  for  three  days  Gaynor  had  been  mixing  a  quar 
ter  of  a  grain  at  each  dose.  During  the  coming  week  this 
was  to  be  reduced  to  an  eighth. 

Sophy  turned  aside  her  head  as  she  saw  the  man  ap 
proach  Cecil  with  the  little  instrument.  She  could  not 
shake  off  the  horror  with  which  it  filled  her. 

She  sat  and  gazed  out,  unseeing,  at  the  reeling  landscape 
as  the  train  rushed  north — blind  to  all  but  the  picture  that 
memory  painted  on  the  dim  curtain  of  the  present.  The 
train  rushed  north  with  the  ardour  of  a  Titan  to  a  tryst. 
The  great  engine  panted  as  with  passion.  Through  the 
deepening  twilight  the  rolling  pasture  lands  of  Durham 
glowed  with  a  green  that  was  more  a  feeling  than  an  actual 
tint.  The  guard  lighted  the  little  lamp  in  the  roof  of  the 
carriage.  At  once  the  twilight  hollowed  to  a  purple  gulf 
through  which  they  sped  recklessly. 

Now  Sophy  glanced  again  at  her  husband.  His  head 
was  thrown  back  against  the  cushions,  his  hands  relaxed. 
There  was  an  expression  of  supreme  peace  on  his  quiet 
face.  "The  peace  that  passeth  all  understanding"  flashed 
through  Sophy's  mind.  She  shivered.  This  peace  of 
Cecil 's  and  that  other  divine  peace  were  so  cruelly  removed 
one  from  the  other.  Yet  this,  too,  was  "past  understand 
ing"  for  all  outside  the  black  magic  of  its  influence.  The 
lamp  turned  the  window-pane  near  which  he  sat  into  a 
dusky  mirror.  In  its  surface  she  saw  repeated  the  sinister 
quiet  of  his  profile,  and  through  this  reflection  of  his  face 
dimly  she  saw  the  further  landscape.  Yes,  thus  it  was  that 
she  saw  the  whole  world  now — through  the  medium  of  her 
husband's  image. 

When  they  got  out  at  Dynehurst  Station  they  found  the 
night  chilly  with  a  promise  of  rain  in  the  air.  Gaynor 
hastened  forward  with  his  master's  overcoat — Bobby  was 
bundled  up  in  Miller's  shawl  over  his  little  pea-jacket. 

Sophy  looked  regretfully  up  at  the  sky,  strewn  thickly 


108  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

with  little  shells  of  cloud.  She  dreaded  a  long  rainy  spell 
at  Dynehurst — the  weeping  trees,  and  flowers,  and  walls. 
It  was  like  being  enclosed  in  a  vast,  grey-glass  globe  stream 
ing  with  water,  to  be  immured  in  Dynehurst  during  a  sea 
son  of  rain. 

Gerald  had  sent  a  waggonette  and  a  brougham  to  meet 
them. 

"Come  with  me,  Sophy,"  Cecil  said,  taking  her  hand  and 
going  toward  the  brougham. 

Side  by  side  they  went  rolling  swiftly  between  the  dark 
ling  hedges,  across  broad  pasture  lands  that  gave  forth  a 
dank,  sweet  country  perfume  of  earth  and  grass.  There 
was  a  smell  of  cattle  and  the  breath  of  cattle  in  the  moist 
air.  These  scents  and  the  being  so  close  beside  him  in  the 
brougham  made  her  feel  as  though  she  were  repeating  her 
first  drive  to  Dynehurst,  taken  during  her  honeymoon. 
That  also  had  been  on  a  night  in  May.  But  then  all  had 
been  a  wonder  and  a  dream.  Now  she  was  horribly  wide 
awake.  There  was  no  wonder — only  a  sad  surmise,  half 
answered  by  her  own  reason  already.  A  long,  dim  cor 
ridor  of  locked  doors  seemed  stretching  before  her.  She 
must  force  each  lock,  drag  him  through  the  opened  door 
with  her,  and  lock  it  fast  again  behind  them.  They  might 
emerge  into  that  "wide  place"  of  which  the  Psalmist 
spoke — she  could  not  know.  She  could  only  hope ;  but  hope 
seemed  to  have  dwindled  during  that  painful  journey. 

They  entered  the  Park.  The  trees  rose  dark  and  blurred 
about  them,  deeper  shadows  on  the  pale  grey  shadow  of  the 
night.  They  gave  forth  a  soft,  seething  sound  in  the  gentle 
wind.  It  was  as  if  they  sighed  in  their  sleep.  A  scent  of 
dead  leaves  blew  from  the  coverts — fresh  and  bitter.  A 
wholesome  autumn  smell,  mingling  oddly  with  the  sound 
of  summer  leafage.  They  passed  the  chapel,  in  which  ser 
vice  was  held  every  Sunday  for  the  family  and  servants  of 
Dynehurst.  There  all  the  Chesneys  were  buried.  There 
Cecil  would  lie  some  day,  and  she,  and  little  Bobby — 
Bobby  grown  to  be  a  man,  an  old  man  maybe,  with  chil 
dren  and  grandchildren  of  his  own  to  follow.  She  imag 
ined  the  dank  crypt,  and  the  coffins  ranged  there.  It 
seemed  a  horrid  way  to  be  buried.  She  pressed  closer  to 
Cecil.  She  remembered  how  she  had  once  wished  that  he 
would  die.  .  .  . 

Now  the  severe,  dark  mass  of  the  house  came  into  sight, 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  109 

pierced  by  squares  of  dusky  orange.  Against  the  skyey 
beach  of  cloud-shells  it  reared  like  a  grim  cliff.  The  front 
door  stood  wide.  Gerald  was  waiting  for  them.  He  came 
forward  to  assist  Cecil. 

"Sorry,  old  man,"  he  said  shyly,  holding  out  his  hand. 
"Have  a  shoulder?" 

"Thanks,"  said  his  brother,  "but  I'm  not  a  cripple,  you 
know. ' ' 

His  tone  was  good-humoured.  He  got  out  first,  being 
nearest  the  door,  then  turned  to  help  Sophy. 

"How  d'ye  do,  Sophy?"  said  Gerald.  His  face  lighted 
up  as  he  saw  her.  ' '  Glad  Cecil  seems  so  fit.  Thought  the 
journey  might  knock  him  up  a  bit. ' ' 

They  went  into  the  huge,  oppressive  hall.  The  skylight 
that  ran  from  end  to  end  of  its  hundred  feet  looked  curi 
ously  blind  in  the  glow  from  lamps  and  candles.  There 
was  a  fire  burning  in  the  big  fireplace  at  one  end. 

"Thought  you  might  get  chilly  driving  up,"  explained 
Gerald.  He  was  a  slight,  dark  man,  rather  Celtic  in  ap 
pearance.  He  was  like  the  great-grandfather,  for  whom  he 
was  named,  and  who  also  had  been  a  scholar  and  a  dreamer. 

' '  Good  old  chap ! ' '  said  Chesney,  expanding  in  the  bright 
blaze.  "Deuced  thoughtful  of  you!"  He  was  as  fond  of 
artificial  warmth  as  a  cat. 

"And  I  had  tea  served — though  it's  only  an  hour  to 
dinner,"  continued  Gerald.  He  was  much  pleased  at  find 
ing  his  brother  so  amiable.  He  had  thought  that  illness 
might  make  him  quite  unbearable.  It  was  for  Sophy's  sake 
that  he  was  so  glad.  He  himself  merely  kept  out  of  the 
way  when  Cecil  was  outrageous. 

The  others  arrived.  Lady  Wychcote  joined  them. 
Bobby,  who  was  fast  asleep,  was  taken  straight  to  the 
nursery.  Gaynor  waited  at  the  door  for  orders. 

"Will  you  go  to  your  room  at  once,  Cecil,  or  stay  with 
us  a  little  while?"  asked  Sophy. 

"Think  I'll  just  have  a  nip  of  tea  first,"  said  Chesney. 
' '  Mind  you  make  it  strong — no  slops,  please. ' ' 

He  turned  to  Gerald. 

' '  They  simply  brim  me  with  slops  now,  old  boy. ' ' 

Why  he  felt  so  amicably  towards  Gerald  he  could  not 
have  said.  His  elder  brother  usually  "got  on  his  nerves." 
He  had  never  been  fond  of  him,  even  when  they  were  lads. 
To-night,  though,  somehow  "good  old  Gerald"  seemed  to 


110  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

appeal  to  him.  lie  found  his  lank,  dark  face  and  shy  eyes 
rather  touching.  Noticing  this,  Gerald,  on  his  part,  had  a 
nervous  feeling  that  his  brother  might  be  going  to  die,  in 
spite  of  his  apparent  strength  at  the  moment.  It  was  so 
highly  unnatural,  this  excessive  cordiality  of  tone  and 
manner. 

Sophy,  too,  was  unpleasantly  struck  by  Cecil's  manner 
to  Gerald.  She  felt  sure  now  that  the  morphine  was  ac 
countable  for  it — that  she  and  Gaynor  had  given  him  too 
much.  She  felt  scared — and  very  tired.  The  stillness  of 
the  country  after  London  and  the  train  was  like  a  louder 
roar  of  occult  menace.  When  she  handed  him  his  cup, 
Chesney  gulped  the  hot,  black  tea  eagerly.  He  was  at  the 
exact  point  in  the  effect  of  that  half-grain  dose  when  he 
craved  stimulant.  He  drank  this  cup,  then  another.  The 
heat  was  grateful  to  that  fade  feeling  of  his  stomach,  but 
what  he  really  thirsted  for  was  the  more  biting  burn  of  raw 
spirit.  Suddenly  the  floor  beneath  his  feet  seemed  to  be 
come  transparent  and  he  could  see  as  though  they  were 
actually  visible  to  him  the  well-stocked  wine-cellars  of 
Dynehurst.  There  was  a  special  brand  of  cognac  stored 
there — an  1820  vintage,  smooth,  mellow,  powerful — a  liquid 
that  was  like  flame  tempered  in  magic  vats.  He  could 
taste  it,  as  though  a  round  mouthful  actually  stung  his 
palate  with  its  smooth,  fiery  globule.  He  determined  to 
have  a  draught  of  it.  How  ?  The  morphia  cunning  pointed 
out  the  way.  All  at  once  he  slipped  sideways  in  his  chair, 
letting  the  cup  drop  from  his  hand.  His  head  fell  back. 
His  lip  lifted,  showing  the  dry  teeth.  He  looked  unspeak 
ably  ghastly  in  the  huge  limpness  of  his  slackened  figure. 
Sophy  and  Gaynor  ran  to  him.  Gerald  also  started  for 
ward,  but  his  mother  caught  his  arm. 

"Wait!"  she  said  sharply.  "They  know  what  to  do  for 
him." 

' '  Poor  old  Cecil !  It 's  awful ! ' '  muttered  his  brother, 
very  pale. 

Gaynor  put  his  arms  about  Cecil,  as  though  trying  to 
lift  him.  When  Gerald  saw  this  he  broke  from  his  mother 
and  ran  to  help.  Between  them  they  laid  Cecil  on  the 
floor.  He  half  opened  his  eyes  and  moaned.  Again  his 
acting  was  so  good  that  it  deceived  himself.  He  felt  as  he 
lay  there  that  he  was  really  on  the  verge  of  swooning — that 
only  brandy  would  save  him. 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  111 

"Brandy!"  he  muttered. 

Sophy  looked  wildly  at  Gaynor.  She  was  shaking  from 
head  to  foot. 

"I'll  get  a  dose  of  strychnine  ready,  madam,"  he  said, 
turning  towards  the  tea-table.  Chesney  's  lids  fell  again. 

"Brandy!"    It  was  just  a  whisper. 

"Whatever  you're  going  to  do,  for  God's  sake  do  it 
quickly ! ' '  cried  Gerald  to  Gaynor.  He  spoke  in  a  high, 
shrill  voice.  He  was  terribly  excited  and  alarmed. 

"Brandy!"  came  the  faint  whisper,  almost  inaudible. 

Gerald  sprang  up,  rushed  from  the  room.  As  Gaynor 
was  heating  water  in  a  teaspoon  to  prepare  the  strychnine, 
he  rushed  back  again,  a  bottle  of  brandy  and  a  liqueur 
glass  in  his  hand. 

"Here!"  he  cried.  "At  least  try  this  while  the  other's 
being  got  ready." 

Gaynor 's  hand  shook  so  that  he  slopped  the  water  he 
had  already  prepared,  and  had  to  begin  all  over. 

"Oh,  hurry,  Gaynor — hurry!"  cried  Sophy,  in  despair. 
Cecil  seemed  to  have  fainted  again. 

"Let's  try  this — do  let's  try  this,"  urged  Gerald,  kneel 
ing  down  by  her. 

"I'm  afraid,"  she  murmured.  She  was  white  to  the 
lips.  ' '  They  say  it 's  so  bad  for  him. ' ' 

Gaynor  came  forward  with  the  hypodermic  needle. 
Sophy  held  it,  shivering  with  repulsion,  wrhile  the  valet 
unfastened  his  master's  sleeve-links  and  pushed  back  his 
sleeve. 

' '  Good  God  !  What 's  the  matter  with  his  arm  ? ' '  whis 
pered  Gerald  hoarsely.  Sophy  felt  sick  to  death.  Life 
seemed  to  her  like  a  sickness — a  disease.  She,  too,  had 
caught  a  glimpse  of  the  disfigured  flesh. 

"Result  of  the  fever,  your  lordship,"  said  Gaynor  in  a 
low  voice.  He  thrust  the  needle  skilfully  home  between 
two  less  recent  punctures.  Gerald  drew  back  as  though 
it  had  entered  his  own  arm. 

"He'll  revive  now,  your  lordship,"  said  the  valet  in  the 
same  even  voice.  They  waited.  Cecil  lay  there  motion 
less,  his  lip  still  curled  back  over  his  teeth.  After  a  few 
moments : 

"Brandy!"  he  breathed  again. 

"For  God's  sake,  give  it  to  him  .  .  .  give  it  to  him, 
Sophy ! ' '  Gerald  urged. 


112  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

Gaynor  had  his  master's  wrist  in  his  fingers.  "His  pulse 
is  slow,  madam,  but  not  bad,"  he  said.  Yet  there  was 
something  of  alarm,  too,  in  his  quiet  face.  They  waited  a 
few  seconds.  Then  Chesney's  lips  again  just  formed  the 
word  that  he  seemed  no  longer  able  to  utter. 

"Oh,  try  the  brandy — just  try  it!"  Gerald  said  again. 

Sophy  looked  at  Gaynor.  His  eyes  were  on  his  master's 
face. 

"Gaynor — do  you  think?     Might  we?" 

"I  hardly  know  what  to  say,  madam." 

"Here!  I'll  give  it  him — I'll  risk  it,"  said  Gerald. 
He  thrust  his  arm  under  his  brother's  neck,  and  held  the 
little  glass  of  spirit  to  his  lips.  Chesney  drank  feebly. 
Some  of  the  brandy  ran  from  the  corner  of  his  mouth. 

"Here!  fill  it  again!"  said  Gerald  imperiously  to  Gay 
nor.  Like  all  superficially  timid  people,  he  was  overbold 
once  his  timidity  was  conquered. 

The  valet  looked  at  Sophy  before  obeying.  She  did  not 
see  this  look.  She  was  staring  at  Cecil's  face.  The  thought 
had  come  to  her:  "Is  it  all  real?  Is  he  really  as  ill  as  he 
seems  ? ' ' 

Gaynor  had  no  course  but  to  obey  Lord  Wychcote.  He 
merely  said  very  low  as  he  poured  out  the  brandy : 

"The  doctor  says  it's  very  bad  for  him,  your  lordship." 

But  Gerald  was  past  heeding  such  warnings.  His  usu 
ally  rough,  almost  brutal,  brother  had  spoken  to  him  with 
peculiar  kindness  only  a  few  moments  ago.  Now  he  lay 
there  looking  as  though  death  had  seized  him.  Gerald  had 
felt  that  presentiment  of  his  death.  He  could  not  stand 
inertly  by,  while  others  trifled  with  the  red-tape  of  doctors' 
orders.  He  gave  Cecil  the  second  glass  of  brandy.  Every 
drop  was  swallowed  this  time.  The  delicious  fire  burned 
its  pleasant  path  to  the  very  pit  of  the  craving  stomach. 
Cecil  felt  that  he  really  loved  his  brother.  He  lifted  his 
languid  lids  and  gave  him  a  look  of  grateful  affection. 

Lady  Wychcote  still  stood  by  the  tea-table,  her  hand 
kerchief  against  her  lips.  She  had  not  moved  a  muscle 
during  this  scene. 

Of  all  those  present,  she  was  the  only  one  who,  from 
first  to  last,  had  felt  sure  that  the  attack  was  simulated. 
She  was  torn  between  humiliation  that  a  son  of  hers  should 
condescend  to  such  mummery,  and  an  odd,  unwilling  ad 
miration  for  the  skill  with  which  it  was  done. 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  113 

"He  always  had  the  will  of  demons,"  she  told  herself 
now.  "I  must  put  Bellamy  on  his  guard."  It  was  per 
haps  natural  that,  with  her  ignorance  in  regard  to  the 
habit  of  morphia,  she  should  find  this  deadly  determina 
tion  to  procure  spirits  far  more  alarming.  Her  youngest 
brother,  a  brilliant  man,  had  drunk  himself  to  death  at 
forty-one. 

Yes,  she  must  speak  to  Bellamy.  They  must  have  a  pro 
fessional  nurse  for  Cecil. 

She  went  to  bed,  feeling  full  her  age  that  night. 


XXI 

THE  next  day  the  rain  was  coming  down  in  swirls.  A 
strong  wind  drove  it.  It  beat  against  the  window-pane  like 
little  fingers  drumming  with  sharp  nails.  Down  the  chim 
neys  it  beat,  spattering  into  the  fires  which  were  kindled 
everywhere.  The  Park  was  a  grey-green  clustered  shadow. 
The  lawns  looked  soggy  like  moss.  The  huge  house  was 
gloomy  as  a  decorated  cave.  The  furniture  and  stair-rail 
sweated  with  moisture. 

Chesney  kept  his  bed,  as  always  in  the  morning.  He  had 
waked  with  a  dull  headache  from  the  unaccustomed  dose 
of  brandy  on  an  empty  stomach.  Waking  too  early,  in  the 
iron-grey,  streaming  dawn,  he  had  lain  there  between  the 
sheets  that  felt  so  clammy  to  his  nervous  skin  which  again 
craved  morphia — unable  to  get  it  until  Gaynor  should  have 
left  the  room — racked  mentally,  also,  by  a  nauseating  shame 
for  the  part  that  he  had  played  last  evening.  In  this  in 
terval  between  dose  and  dose,  worse  than  the  physical 
malaise  which  amounted  to  torment,  was  the  sense  of  his 
own  vileness.  Now  he  hated  Gerald  for  running  to  fetch 
the  brandy.  For  the  same  thing  which  he  had  loved  him 
for  last  night,  he  hated  him  this  morning.  Fool!  If  he 
hadn't  been  so  damnably  officious,  perhaps  they  might  not 
have  given  him  the  brandy.  Yes,  he  wished  heartily  now 
that  his  will  had  been  denied  him  by  force.  Besides,  he 
would  have  to  see  Bellamy  sometime  this  morning,  and  he 
was  all  to  bits — he  could  feel  that  his  face  looked  unnat 
ural,  deathly.  And  at  the  same  time  the  craving  for  stimu 
lant  carne  over  him  again.  He  asked  for  a  cup  of  black 
coffee.  "Make  it  yourself,"  he  said  to  Gaynor.  "In  that 


114  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

French  machine  of  mine.  I  don't  want  the  filth  an  English 
cook  calls  coffee." 

While  Gaynor  was  thus  engaged  he  managed  to  crawl 
from  bed  and  take  a  quarter  grain  of  morphia  in  addition 
to  the  other  quarter  that  Gaynor  had  just  given  him.  He 
found  a  place  for  the  needle  on  his  thigh  far  up  near  the 
hip-bone.  It  was  too  near  the  head  of  the  sciatic  nerve, 
and  hurt  him  unusually.  He  almost  broke  the  needle  in 
his  flesh,  from  irritation  and  the  awkwardness  of  using  the 
syringe  so  high  up  on  his  leg.  He  had  no  time  to  put  the 
wire  through  the  needle  or  to  clean  it  properly  before  the 
man  came  back  with  the  coffee. 

"Damned  nuisance,"  he  thought.  "Some  day  I  shall 
be  giving  myself  an  abscess."  But  the  extra  dose  and  the 
coffee  together  braced  arid  calmed  him.  He  looked  toler 
ably  normal  after  he  had  had  a  tub  and  Gaynor  had  shaved 
him. 

"I'll  put  on  a  dressing-gown  and  sit  in  that  arm-chair 
with  a  rug  over  me,"  he  said.  One  felt  such  a  helpless 
carcass  in  bed  when  those  brutes  of  quacks  came  peering 
and  asking  their  impudent  questions. 

Sophy  felt  encouraged  when  she  saw  him  thus  estab 
lished  in  the  big  chair.  She  had  passed  a  wretched  night. 
Her  doubt  of  him — of  the  genuineness  of  his  attack — had 
seemed  so  shameful  to  her — yet  she  could  not  help  doubt 
ing.  And  if  her  doubt  were  justified — what  abysms  opened 
before  her — before  them  both !  What  salvation  could  there 
be  for  one  so  deliberately,  cunningly  false  ? 

"You  look  so  much  better,"  she  said.  "Perhaps  this  is 
the  best  thing  for  you,  really — the  country — the  perfect 
quiet  of  it." 

"The  brandy  is  what  did  this  bit  of  improvement,"  he 
replied  calmly.  He  must  brave  it  out.  Besides,  there  was 
that  only  half-stilled  craving  deep  underneath  the  caution 
of  his  present  mood.  He  added  reasonably:  "You  can't 
cut  a  chap  off  from  a  thing  that  he's  as  used  to  as  I  am  to 
spirit  of  some  sort  without  making  him  suffer  rather  se 
verely.  ' ' 

"It's  only  that  the  doctor  said  it  was  so  bad  for  you, 
Cecil." 

"  Pf !  That  ass  Hopkins !  Now  Bellamy  has  to  bray  his 
little  bray.  We'll  see  what  he  says." 

Giles  Bellamy  came  at  ten  o'clock.    He  was  a  good-look- 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  115 

ing  man  of  about  forty,  with  short-sighted,  intelligent 
brown  eyes  that  were  rather  too  large  for  a  man,  and  a 
pale,  clever  face  set  in  a  Vandyke  beard.  This  beard  and 
his  large  eyes,  that  looked  almost  womanishly  soft  at  times, 
had  gained  him  the  nickname  of  O.  P.  from  Cecil  (the 
initials  of  the  term  "Old  Portrait").  Sometimes  he  called 
him  thus ;  sometimes,  when  in  an  especially  ironical  mood, 
by  the  full  title.  He  had  known  the  physician  from  boy 
hood. 

"Wie  gelits,  Old  Portrait?"  he  greeted  him  this  morn 
ing  from  the  vantage  of  the  easy  chair.  ' '  The  tender  pas 
sion  still  unroused  ?  When  are  we  to  have  some  little  new 
portraits  for  your  family  picture  gallery?" 

Bellamy  took  these  pleasantries  urbanely,  though  he  was 
aware  of  a  certain  savagery  underneath  them.  He  under 
stood  Chesney  's  character  fairly  well,  and  felt  rather  sorry 
for  him  in  his  present  predicament.  It  was  rather  like 
seeing  a  trapped  lion.  Even  though  the  lion  had  been  in 
dulging  in  man-eating,  he  still  felt  compassion  for  the 
great,  baffled  brute-force.  His  confirmed  bachelorhood  had 
always  been  the  subject  of  more  or  less  caustic  jesting  on 
Chesney 's  part.  In  an  evil  mood,  he  seemed  to  enjoy  noth 
ing  better  than  baiting  his  brother  and  Bellamy,  turn  and 
turn  about. 

Bellamy  was  a  Baliol  man  and  so  was  Gerald.  Cecil  used 
to  say  that  Baliol  bred  what  Byron  called  ' '  excellent  per 
sons  of  the  third-sex. ' '  He  used  to  harangue  the  two  celi 
bates  rather  brilliantly  on  the  subject  of  sex  in  mind- 
quoting  Mommson  and  other  authorities  to  prove  that 
"genius  is  in  proportion  to  passion." 

But  Bellamy  was  an  able  man  in  his  way.  He  had  stud 
ied  medicine  in  Edinburgh  and  Vienna.  He  was  far  better 
posted  than  his  London  confrere,  Hopkins,  on  the  vagaries 
of  the  morphia  habit.  Besides,  Lady  "Wychcote  had  had  a 
talk  with  him  in  her  private  sitting-room  before  sending 
him  upstairs.  Now  as  he  sat,  parrying  Cecil's  rather  ill- 
tempered  thrusts  with  imperturbable  good-humour,  he  was 
watching  him  narrowly  out  of  his  large,  vague  looking  eyes, 
though  he  seemed  casual  enough.  He  saw  clearly  that 
Cecil  was  getting  more  morphia  than  Gaynor's  record 
showed.  He  had  decided,  before  talking  to  him  for  twenty 
minutes,  that  a  trained  nurse  was  indispensable — one,  more 
over,  who  had  been  on  such  cases  before,  and  had  nerve  and 


116  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

character.  Hopkins  had  not  engaged  a  nurse  because  the 
only  one  of  whom  he  knew,  perfectly  suited  for  the  pur 
pose,  had  still  ten  days  on  a  similar  case  before  she  would 
be  free.  In  his  pocket  Bellamy  had  the  address  of  this 
nurse — Anne  Harding — Hopkins  had  sent  it  to  him  the  day 
before.  She  would  be  free  to  accept  another  engagement 
on  the  twelfth — that  was  to-morrow. 

He  determined,  with  Mrs.  Chesney's  and  Lady  Wych- 
cote  's  approval,  to  wire  her  that  afternoon. 

However,  Bellamy  made  a  serious  mistake  in  not  speak 
ing  openly  to  Chesney  about  his  intention  of  sending  for 
the  nurse.  Sophy  had  to  break  this  news  to  him,  and  he 
received  it  with  a  burst  of  appalling  fury  against  the 
doctor. 

"Damned  little  sneak!"  he  cried,  his  face  convulsed. 
"Why  the  devil  didn't  he  say  so  to  me?"  His  language 
became  so  outrageous  that  Sophy  rose,  saying : 

' '  I  must  leave  you,  if  you  talk  like  this. ' ' 

Something  in  her  white  face — a  sort  of  smothered  loath 
ing — checked  him. 

"See  here,"  he  said,  mastering  himself  by  a  violent  effort 
— a  vein  in  the  middle  of  his  forehead  stood  out  dark  and 
purplish;  "now  just  try  to  take  this  in,  all  of  you — my 
well-wishers.  To  do  anything  with  me  whatever,  you've 
got  to  be  straight  with  me,  by  God !  1 11  not  have  sneaking, 
and  confabulations  in  dark  corners.  And  make  that  little 
eunuch  Bellamy  understand  it,  or  I'll  pitch  him  out  of 
window,  neck  and  crop,  the  next  time  he  sets  foot  in  this 
house!" 

Sophy  felt  that  he  was  to  a  certain  extent  justified  in 
his  anger.  She  promised  for  Bellamy  that  he  would  say 
things  directly  to  Cecil  himself  in  future. 

Then  she  went  away  to  the  nursery  for  solace,  sick  at 
heart,  sick  at  brain,  sick  in  spirit. 

To  her  amazement  she  found  Lady  Wychcote  there, 
seated  in  a  chair  before  the  fire  with  Bobby  on  her  knee. 
He  was  babbling  excitedly,  and  his  grandmother  was  smil 
ing  at  him  with  that  appraising  look  in  her  eyes  which 
Sophy  so  resented.  The  boy  tried  to  snap  his  soft,  curled 
fingers  at  his  mother  as  soon  as  he  caught  sight  of  her,  in 
his  eagerness  to  have  her  come  near. 

' '  Muvvah  ! "  he  cried.  ' '  Oh,  Muvvah  !  Ganny  div  Bobby 
gee-gee ! ' ' 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  117 

"Yes.  I'm  going  to  give  him  a  Shelty,"  said  Lady 
Wychcote.  ' '  It 's  high  time  the  boy  learned  how  to  ride. ' ' 

"It's  very  good  of  you,"  said  Sophy,  pleased  for  the 
child 's  delight.  ' '  But  he 's  only  two,  you  know. ' ' 

"Quite  old  enough,"  Lady  Wychcote  said  firmly.  "I 
wonder  you  never  thought  of  it  yourself." 

"We  couldn't  have  afforded  it  in  town,"  Sophy  said  with 
some  stiffness.  Her  mother-in-law's  tone  was  supercilious. 

"Pf !"  said  Lady  Wychcote.  "You  know  Gerald  has  a 
faible  for  you.  You'd  only  to  hint  it." 

Sophy  reddened. 

' '  I  don 't  hint  for  things, ' '  she  said  still  more  stiffly. 

"Well,  well!  Don't  let's  tiff  over  it,"  Lady  Wychcote 
retorted  loftily.  "We're  not  congenial,  but  I've  taken  a 
fancy  to  my  grandson.  Let  that  mollify  you." 

Sophy  gazed  out  at  the  bleared  landscape,  that  looked 
wavy  like  a  bad  print  thus  seen  through  the  streaming 
window-pane.  She  realised  in  that  moment  that  unhappi- 
ness  filled  her  to  the  least  crevice  of  her  being.  She  needed 
kindness  so  bitterly,  and  here  as  her  only  companion  was 
this  frigid,  acrid  woman  who  disliked  her  for  having  mar 
ried  Cecil,  and  grudged  her  Gerald 's  friendship.  Then  she 
glanced  back  at  the  familiar  group  before  the  fire.  Bobby 
was  leaning  forward  against  the  beautifully  corseted  figure 
of  his  grandparent,  eagerly  demanding  to  know  more  about 
his  "gee-gee." 

A  terror  seized  Sophy — a  sort  of  blind  fear.  Was  this 
the  beginning  of  a  new  misery?  Would  Lady  Wychcote 
try  to  get  her  son  from  her  ?  Was  she  laying  plans  behind 
that  smooth,  narrow  brow?  Insidiously,  little  by  little,  as 
the  dreary  years  crept  by,  would  she  try  to  wean  Bobby 
from  her,  influence  him  against  her  ?  Did  she  lust  for  him 
to  make  of  him  what  she  had  failed  to  make  of  Cecil  and 
Gerald?  She  felt  as  if  she  must  snatch  Bobby  from  that 
well-preserved  breast,  and  run  to  hide  with  him  in  the 
nethermost  parts  of  the  earth.  It  was  a  feeling  stronger 
than  reason,  one  of  those  presentiments  which  seized  her 
sometimes — which  so  often  came  true.  A  powerful,  eerie 
feeling  of  knowing  without  being  able  to  say  why — like  the 
knowledge  that  had  come  to  her  when  she  told  Olive  Arun- 
del  that  she  would  meet  Amaldi  in  a  room  with  three  win 
dows.  Then  she  shook  the  feeling  off.  The  very  instance 
that  she  had  recalled  calmed  her.  There  had  been  three 


118  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

windows,  true.  But  evidently  Amaldi  was  to  play  no  im 
portant  part  in  her  life.  She  might  not  see  him  for  years, 
if  ever.  Olive  had  told  her  that  he  was  returning  to  Italy 
in  July. 

Miller  came  to  give  Bobby  his  luncheon  and  the  two 
ladies  left  the  nursery  together.  As  they  passed  through 
the  baize  door  that  shut  the  corridor  leading  to  the  nursery 
from  the  rest  of  the  house,  Lady  Wychcote  said,  "Come 
to  my  room  a  moment,  please.  I  've  something  to  show  you 
that  may  interest  you. ' ' 

She  unlocked  a  little  ivory  box  on  her  dressing-table  and 
took  out  a  miniature,  framed  as  a  locket.  "My  father, 
when  he  was  a  child,"  she  said  briefly.  "Do  you  see  the 
likeness?" 

Sophy  gazed  down  at  the  miniature,  and  the  dark  fear 
stole  over  her  again.  It  was  certainly  strangely  like  her 
Bobby.  The  same  dark-red  curls,  and  imperious  little  cleft 
chin.  The  eyes  in  the  miniature  were  brown,  Bobby's  were 
grey — that  was  the  most  noticeable  difference. 

"Yes — it's  very  like  Bobby,"  she  said  with  an  effort. 

"My  father  was  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer  at  seven- 
and-thirty, "  said  Lady  Wychcote.  "You  see  now  the  chief 
reason  of  my  interest  in  my  grandson." 

Sophy  saw  indeed.    Then  she  gathered  up  her  courage. 

"But  it's  a  pity,  I  think,  to  count  on  the  tendencies  of 
such  a  mite,"  she  said.  "He  may  not  show  the  least  in 
clination  for  politics." 

"That,"  said  Lady  Wychcote  rather  grimly,  "is  a  mat 
ter  of  education." 

Sophy  looked  into  the  hard  eyes. 

"I  think  not,"  she  said,  but  her  tone  was  gentle. 

"Allow  me — as  one  having  more  experience — to  disagree 
with  you,"  replied  her  mother-in-law. 

Sophy  still  looked  at  her. 

"You  forget  one  thing,"  she  said  finally,  "the  fact  that 
he  probably  inherits  something  of  my  nature.  I  have  to 
a  hopeless  degree  what  is  called  the  artistic  temperament." 

Locking  away  the  miniature  again.  Lady  Wychcote  per 
mitted  herself  a  sourire  fin.  "It  would  not  have  annoyed 
you  had  you  been  my  daughter,"  was  what  she  said. 

It  was  useless  to  bicker  with  her.  Sophy  merely  changed 
the  subject  by  giving  her  an  account  of  Cecil's  indignation 
over  Bellamy's  lack  of  directness  with  him.  Lady  Wych- 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  119 

cote,  who  could  be  reasonable  enough  when  she  wished, 
agreed  to  speak  with  Bellamy  herself  on  the  subject. 

The  next  day,  by  the  first  morning  train,  Anne  Harding 
arrived  at  Dynehurst.  She  was  a  small,  slight  but  wiry 
woman  of  about  thirty-five,  and  her  curly  black  hair  was 
still  short,  having  been  cropped  some  months  previous 
during  an  attack  of  typhoid.  This  short,  curling  hair  and 
a  smile  of  singular  ingenuousness,  gave  her  an  almost  child 
like  air  at  times.  Sophy,  as  she  took  in  the  nurse 's  appear 
ance,  wondered  where  in  that  small  body  lurked  the  cour 
age  and  determination  necessary  for  such  a  profession. 
She  wondered  how  Nurse  Harding  would  strike  Cecil. 
Would  he  take  one  of  his  rough-and-ready  fancies  to  her, 
or  detest  her  from  the  first.  She  talked  plainly  and  quietly 
to  her.  When  she  had  finished,  she  said : 

"How  do  you  think  it  will  be  best  for  you  to  meet  Mr. 
Chesney,  Nurse  ?  Shall  I  tell  him  that  you  are  here  first  ? 
Shall  I  go  in  with  you?" 

Anne  Harding  consulted  the  little  watch  in  its  leather 
bracelet  on  her  thin,  sinewy  dark  wrist.  She  had  black 
eyes  full  of  fire  and  subdued  laughter.  Sophy  realised 
suddenly  that  she  looked  something  like  the  pictures  of 
Hall  Caine  as  a  young  man — and  incidentally  that  she  also 
resembled  a  very  alert,  large-eyed  insect  of  some  sort. 
This  made  her  smile.  Anne  Harding,  catching  the  glimmer 
of  this  smile  as  she  looked  up  from  her  watch,  thought : 

' '  What  a  perfectly  lovely  woman !  Of  course  a  woman 
like  this  had  to  go  and  marry  a  morphinomaniac. ' ' 

Then  she  asked  practically,  before  herself  answering 
Sophy 's  question : 

"Plow  does  Mr.  Chesney  take  his  nourishment?  Every 
two  hours  ? ' ' 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Sophy,  astonished.  "He  has  meals  when 
we  do — all  except  breakfast.  Why?  Should  he  eat  every 
two  hours?" 

"It  depends,  of  course,  on  the  doctor's  orders,"  said 
Anne  cautiously.  "But  has  he  an  appetite?  The  drug 
kills  the  appetite  as  a  rule." 

"Well — I  don't  think  he  does  eat  much." 

"You  see,"  explained  the  nurse,  "I  was  thinking  that  I 
might  take  his  tray  in — as  soon  as  I'd  changed  to  my  uni 
form  and  cap.  A  simple  way  like  that  would  be  the  best." 


120 

Sophy  rose. 

"Oh,  I  forgot "  she  said. 

"It  won't  take  me  fifteen  minutes,"  said  Anne  cheer 
fully.  "That's  my  box  now,  I  fancy." 

The  small  black  box  was  brought  in,  and  Sophy  left  her 
to  change  her  dress. 

Bellamy  was  due  in  half  an  hour  now.  She  went  to  re 
port  her  impression  of  the  nurse  to  Lady  Wychcote,  who 
had  asked  her  to  do  so.  She  was  still  in  her  bedroom  being 
made  up  for  the  day  by  her  French  maid.  Louise  was  dis 
missed  and  Sophy  sketched  a  little  picture  of  the  nurse  for 
her  mother-in-law.  Lady  Wychcote  was  dissatisfied  that 
Anne  Harding  was  so  small. 

"However,"  she  said  on  second  thoughts,  "those  eft-like 
creatures  have  the  sharpest  brains  sometimes.  Perhaps  it's 
just  as  well." 

Sophy,  looking  at  her  "morning  face,"  realised  that  she 
was  using  less  rouge  than  usual,  though  she  always  used  it 
with  discretion.  To-day  she  was  almost  pale.  This  har 
monising  of  her  complexion  with  the  circumstance  struck 
Sophy  as  drearily  droll. 

A  servant  knocked  at  the  door  to  say  that  Dr.  Bellamy 
had  come.  They  sent  word  to  Nurse  Harding,  and  went 
down  together. 

It  was  still  raining. 

XXII 

AFTER  Anne  Harding  had  been  twenty-four  hours  on  the 
case,  she  came  to  Sophy,  who  was  writing  letters  in  the 
library.  Just  to  address  the  envelope  to  Charlotte,  which 
she  did  beforehand,  comforted  her.  How  real  and  home 
like  looked  the  familiar  names !  There  was  her  house  of 
refuge  when — if  ever — she  could  escape.  But  she  told 
nothing  of  her  husband's  condition  to  Charlotte. 

"Can  we  go  where  it's  quite  private,  Mrs.  Chesney?" 
said  Anne  Harding.  ' '  I  Ve  some  things  I  must  talk  to  you 
about." 

Sophy  took  the  nurse  up  to  her  bedroom  and  locked  the 
door. 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked,  fixing  her  dilated  eyes  on  the 
shrewd  black  ones. 

"Please  don't  look  so  frightened,"  said  Anne  kindly. 


121 

"  It 's  just  the  usual  worries  in  a  case  like  this.  I  've  talked 
with  Dr.  Bellamy  already;  but  I  must  have  your  help." 

' '  Go  on,  please, ' '  said  Sophy. 

Anne  took  up  the  poker,  and  began  breaking  the  big 
lump  of  coal  in  the  grate  as  she  said  this.  Little  spirals 
of  greenish-yellow  smoke  escaped  from  the  cracks  made 
by  the  poker,  then  jetted  into  flame.  She  was  so  sorry  for 
this  beautiful,  scared  woman,  that  she  looked  doggedly  at 
the  lump  of  coal  all  the  time  that  she  was  speaking. 

1 '  It 's  just  that  Mr.  Chesney  is  getting  extra  morphia — I 
mean  taking  it  himself — lots  of  it "  she  began  bluntly. 

"Oh!"  cried  Sophy.  It  was  a  sort  of  gasp.  Then  she 
said  hurriedly:  "But  it's  impossible,  nurse.  How  can  he 
get  it?  Gaynor,  his  valet,  and  I  had  all  there  is.  Now 
we  've  turned  it  over  to  you — with  both  the  syringes. ' ' 

' '  He 's  getting  it,  ma  'am, ' '  said  Anne  firmly.  ' '  And  he 's 
taking  it  hypodermically,  too." 

"Oh,  don't  you  think  you  are  mistaken?" 

"No,  Mrs.  Chesney.    I  couldn't  be." 

"But— but Have  you— 

She  could  not  bring  it  out.  She  could  not  ask  this  little 
stranger  woman  whether  she  had  searched  Cecil's  things 
for  the  stuff — for  another  syringe. 

"Yes,  I've  hunted — thoroughly — through  everything," 
Anne  said  quite  as  a  matter  of  course,  guessing  what  she 
had  meant  to  ask.  "He  sleeps  so  heavily,  when  he  does 
sleep — from  the  accumulated  effects,  you  know — that  I've 
even  been  able  to  feel  between  the  mattresses.  I've 
searched  the  edges  for  a  rip  where  he  might  have  stuffed  it 
inside.  I  've  looked  through  everything — but  his  letter-box. ' ' 

She  shattered  the  lump  of  coal  quite  as  she  said  this. 

"That's  why  I've  come  to  you.  He's  in  one  of  those 
heavy  sleeps.  I've  got  the  letter-box  and  the  key  in  my 
room.  I  want  you  to  open  it  and  look  for  me.  I  didn't 
quite  like  to  do  that." 

Sophy  gulped  shame.  Its  tang  was  bitterer  than  worm 
wood.  Then  she  felt  a  sudden  anger  against  this  cool, 
white-capped  little  creature  who  summoned  her  suddenly 
to  violate  her  husband's  private  property. 

"No.  I  can't  do  that,  Nurse,"  she  said  coldly.  "Not 
on  an  uncertainty. ' ' 

"But  it's  quite  certain,"  said  Anne  Harding  patiently. 
"Wait— I'll  prove  it  to  you." 


122  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

She  turned  at  last  and  looked  at  Sophy. 

"In  order  to  be  quite  sure,"  she  said — "you  know, 
ma'am,  Dr.  Bellamy  had  told  me  he  felt  pretty  sure  that 
Mr.  Chesney  was  getting  more  than  the  chart  showed. 
"Well,  to  be  quite  sure,  I  substituted  salt  and  water  for 
four  out  of  the  six  doses  I've  given  in  twenty-four  hours. 
Now  you  see,  ma  'am,  to  cut  a  patient  down  suddenly  in  the 
doses  like  that  would  make  him  suffer  something  awful  if 
he  was  really  not  getting  more  himself." 

Sophy  sat  gazing  at  her. 

"Plow  would  it  make  him  suffer?"  she  said  at  last.  Her 
voice  was  almost  a  whisper. 

"Oh,  nerves — terrible — we've  no  way  of  imagining  what 
they  go  through  when  the  drug's  taken  away  sudden.  I 
nursed  a  case  once  where  the  doctor  had  that  method.  But 
I'd  never  do  it  again,  ma'am.  The  patient  twisted  the 
bars  at  the  foot  of  the  bed  in  his  agonj'  like  they  had  been 
paper.  It  was  a  brass  bed.  No,  ma'am.  I'd  never  be 
party  to  a  thing  like  that  again." 

Sophy  felt  as  if  she  were  ill  herself. 

"Don't!"  she  said.  She  put  up  her  hand  over  her  face, 
as  she  leaned  sick  and  weak  in  her  chair.  "Don't  tell  me 
things  like  that — please." 

"I'm  sorry,  Mrs.  Chesney,"  said  the  nurse  in  her  kind, 
blunt  way.  "But  you  see  I  had  to  prove  my  point  to  you. 
It's  a  most  important  one.  That  box  must  be  searched, 
ma'am.  And  you  see  I  don't  like  to  go  into  Mr.  Chesney 's 
private  papers.  Now  you,  as  his  wife,  can  do  it  without 
its  being  any  harm.  Wait  a  minute,  though — are  you 
sure  of  this  man,  Gaynor?" 

"Absolutely." 

"It's  very  hard  to  be  sure  of  people  in  a  morphia  case, 
Mrs.  Chesney.  Sometimes  just  pity  makes  'em  give  the 
drug  to  the  patient." 

"I  am  quite  sure  of  Gaynor.  I'll  tell  you  why,"  Sophy 
added,  feeling  that  it  was  due  the  nurse  to  do  so.  And 
she  told  her  of  the  part  that  Gaynor  had  played  in  the 
tragic  story. 

"Well,  I  should  say  he's  safe  then,"  admitted  Anne, 
when  Sophy  had  finished.  "And  now  that  I  feel  sure  of 
that,  won't  you  let  me  bring  you  that  box,  Mrs.  Chesney? 
You  want  to  save  Mr.  Chesney,  and  that's  the  only  way  to 
do  it — to  help  me  and  the  doctor,"  she  added  shrewdly. 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  123 

Sophy  could  scarcely  have  grown  paler  than  she  was. 

"Go  .  .  .  bring  it  .  .  ."  she  said  in  a  faint  voice. 

Anne  brought  the  red  morocco  box,  with  C.  G.  C.  stamped 
on  it  in  worn  gold  letters,  and  handed  it  with  the  key  to 
Sophy. 

As  the  nurse  set  the  box  upon  her  knees,  Sophy  looked 
so  ghastly  that  Anne  exclaimed: 

"Oh,  pray,  pray,  Mrs.  Chesney,  don't  take  it  so  hard! 
It 's  for  his  good  we  're  doing  it — to  save  him. ' ' 

"Yes, "said  Sophy. 

With  a  firm  gesture  she  thrust  the  key  suddenly  into  the 
small  spring-lock  and  turned  it.  As  she  felt  the  lid  rise 
beneath  her  hand,  it  seemed  to  her  as  though  she  had  by 
this  act  shared  his  degradation — drawn  part  of  it  into  her 
own  blood.  With  her  slender,  nobly  shaped  hands  she 
began  to  search  among  the  letters  and  documents. — Noth 
ing.  The  colour  began  to  rise  again  into  her  white  face. 
Eagerly  she  turned  the  contents  out  upon  her  lap.  Noth 
ing.  Nothing. 

"You  see!"  she  cried,  her  tone  was  almost  joyous. 
"There's  nothing  of  the  kind — you  were  mistaken! 
There 's  nothing — nothing ! ' ' 

Anne  frowned.    Then  she  said  soberly: 

"Well,  I've  got  to  find  it — somehow.  It's  wonderful 
their  cleverness  at  hiding  the  stuff. " 

"But,  Nurse  Harding,"  said  Sophy  reproachfully,  that 
vivid  colour  still  in  her  face,  "a  hypodermic  syringe-case 
isn't  a  thing  that  can  be  hidden  away  easily.  You've  told 
me  that  you've  looked  everywhere.  Isn't  it  rather  cruel  to 
be  suspicious  to  this  extent?" 

' '  Mrs.  Chesney, ' '  said  Anne  Harding,  her  black  eyes  like 
little  gems  with  hard,  cruelly-kind  astuteness.  "If  the 
angel  Gabriel  wras  given  me  for  a  morphia  patient,  I'd 
pluck  his  wings — for  fear  he'd  hide  the  nasty  stuff  among 
the  feathers!" 

She  was  a  character,  was  Anne  Harding,  so  utterly  un 
like  any  English  nurse  that  Sophy  had  ever  seen  before, 
that  she  wondered  whether  indeed  she  could  really  be  Eng 
lish.  Anne  was  very  quick  at  following  the  probabilities 
of  thought-sequence,  for  she  smiled  suddenly  her  childish 
smile,  that  contrasted  so  oddly  with  the  almost  elf-like 
shrewdness  of  her  eyes,  and  said : 

"Pray  forgive  my  speaking  that  way.     I  come  from  the 


124  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

Bush,  you  know.  I'm  an  Australian.  We've  a  blunt  sort 
of  way  of  speaking  out  there." 

Chesney  was  quite  amiable  with  the  little  nurse.  He 
knew  of  course  that  she  suspected  him,  but  the  very  fact 
that  he  had  so  entirely  outwitted  her  made  him  feel  a  sort 
of  grim  pleasure  in  her  presence. 

' '  She 's  a  good  little  rat, ' '  he  said  to  Sophy.  ' '  Not  over 
burdened  with  brains,  though." 

And  he  smiled  his  secretive  smile. 

"Give  me  just  one  week  longer,  Doctor  Bellamy,  and  I'll 
find  it — I'll  find  it  or  give  up  nursing!"  Anne  Harding 
pleaded.  But  Bellamy  determined  to  speak  with  frankness 
to  Chesney  himself.  He  went  to  his  room  that  day  and 
said  without  preliminary  ado: 

' '  Chesney,  for  your  own  sake  I  'm  going  to  take  the  lib 
erty  of  being  brutally  frank.  What  I  think  you're  doing 
is  only  a  regular  symptom  of  your  ailment.  Here  goes, 
then :  Haven 't  you  another  hypodermic  and  morphia  in 
your  possession  ? ' ' 

Chesney  eyed  him  cruelly. 

"It's  a  queer  profession — yours,"  he  said.  "It  gives  a 
little  chap  like  you  courage  to  insult  a  big  man — just  be 
cause  he  happens  to  be  ill  and  therefore  weak,  for  the  mo 
ment. " 

Bellamy  looked  at  him  without  changing  countenance. 

"I  was  afraid  you'd  take  it  this  way — I  wish  you 
wouldn't.  The  very  way  you're  acting  now  is  a  symptom." 

"You  don't  seem  able  to  remove  these  symptoms,"  said 
Chesney,  with  his  slight,  mocking  grin. 

"I  can't — unless  you  help  me.  It's  in  your  own  hands, 
you  know.  You've  always  reminded  me  of  a  lion,  Chesney. 
Now  you  make  me  think  of  a  lion  that  gnaws  off  its  own 
paw  to  get  out  of  a  trap." 

"On  the  contrary,"  said  Cecil,  laughing  that  silent  laugh 
of  his,  "I'm  in  fine  fighting  trim,  I  assure  you.  Wait — 
here's  a  bit  of  verse  on  the  subject: 

' '  '  The  lion  and  the  eunuch  were  fighting  for  a  prize, 
The  lion  beat  the  eunuch,  for  all  he  was  so  wise. '  ' 

Bellamy  looked  at  him  with  undiminished  composure. 
"Ah,  Chesney — you're  in  a  bad  way,"  he  said  regret 
fully. 


125 

"What  the  hell  do  you  mean  by  that?"  demanded  Cecil, 
flaring  up. 

"You  try  to  insult  the  man  who's  trying  to  help  you," 
replied  Bellamy.  "But  an  ill  man  can't  insult  a  physician. 
Good-morning. ' ' 

And  he  went  away. 

Three  days  passed.  Chesney  was  very  reasonable  for 
him.  Drank  the  "slops"  that  were  served  him  without 
demur — went  for  drives  when  the  weather  permitted.  The 
days  were  murky  with  ravelled  cloud  held  up  in  a  network 
of  pale  sunshine.  Nearly  every  afternoon  and  in  the 
night  fine  showers  came  hissing  on  the  leaves  and  over  the 
roof  of  Dynehurst.  He  read  a  great  deal.  He  had  given 
up  his  heavy  political  reading,  and  begun  a  course  of 
Wilkie  Collins. 

"It's  odd  how  illness  makes  a  chap  take  to  trash  in  lit 
erature,"  he  said  to  Sophy,  whose  eyes  he  saw  wondering 
over  the  title  of  the  book  he  had  put  down  when  she  came 
in.  "It's  as  if  the  mind  got  weak,  too,  and  needed  slops 
like  the  body. " 

But  this  odd  deterioration  in  taste  was  due  to  the  mor 
phia,  which  at  times  gave  such  a  deliciously  false  sense  of 
interest  in  the  most  trivial  things.  Deep,  serious  thinking 
was  impossible  under  its  disintegrating  glamour.  It  gave 
rather  gay,  fleeting  fantasies — a  sense  of  delicate  mental 
power  as  though  thought  were  a  sort  of  glittering  toy,  to 
amuse  oneself  with.  After  Wilkie  Collins  he  took  up  the 
French  detective  novels — then  shifted  to  "Ouida."  These 
works  filled  him  with  glee.  "Crewel- work  Ruskin,"  he 
called  them.  ' '  But  damned  amusing  for  all  that.  She  dips 
her  coat-of -many-col ours  in  her  brother's  blood  every  now 
and  then.  She  might  have  been  great,"  he  declared,  "if 
she  hadn't  had  hasmorrhages  of  the  imagination.  That 
made  her  mind  anaamic — but  she  could  spin  darned  good 
yarns,  by  Jove ! ' ' 

He  was  much  amused  by  his  mother's  sudden  interest  in 
Bobby. 

"The  Mater's  vaulting  ambition  has  gone  clean  over  my 
head  and  landed  on  Bobkins, "  he  told  Sophy,  chuckling. 
"I  bet  she'll  live  to  ninety-and-nine,  just  for  the  pleasure 
of  speaking  of  'my  grandson,  the  Prime  Minister.'  : 

He  took  to  calling  Bobby  "Little  William  Pitt." 

"Come  here,  little  William  Pitt;  you're  going  to  be  It, 


126  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

as  they  say  in  the  States,"  he  would  say  when  the  child 
was  brought  in  to  see  him.  "I  hope  you'll  approve  of  me 
for  a  father  when  you're  in  office." 

This  strange  name  by  which  his  father  called  him  con 
fused  the  child  and  displeased  him.  He  felt  that  he  was 
being  made  fun  of.  Children  and  dogs  dislike  the  people 
who  laugh  at  them.  He  hated  to  go  into  his  father's  room, 
and  resisted  so  strenuously  that  Sophy  took  him  there  less 
and  less. 

As  the  days  went  by,  and  still  Anne  Harding  had  not 
found  any  morphia  or  hypodermic  syringe  in  Cecil's  pos 
session,  Sophy  began  to  grow  more  hopeful.  Cecil  was 
certainly  far  quieter  than  he  had  been  for  some  time.  She 
began  again  to  think  that  Bellamy  and  the  nurse  must 
surely  be  mistaken. 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  fourth  day  she  called  Anne  into 
her  room,  and  spoke  to  her  about  it. 

"Don't  you  think  you  must  be  mistaken,  this  time, 
Nurse?"  she  asked  eagerly. 

Anne  Harding  shook  her  stubborn,  wise  little  head. 

"No,  Mrs.  Chesney, "  she  said. 

"But  where  could  it  be?  Mr.  Chesney  is  never  long 
enough  anywhere  but  in  his  own  room  to  have  it  hidden 
about  the  house. ' ' 

"It  isn't  hidden  about  the  house,"  said  Anne.  "It's 
hidden  in  his  own  room.  /  know  it — as  if  I'd  seen  it 
through  the  wall,  or  floor,  or  wherever  it  is,"  she  added 
firmly,  seeing  Sophy's  look  of  doubt.  But  this  doubt  could 
not  withstand  such  authoritative  conviction.  Sophy  sighed 
wearily. 

' '  I  suppose  you  must  be  right, ' '  she  said ;  ' '  but  it  seems 
impossible." 

She  sat  looking  out  of  window  at  the  waving  mantle  of 
rain  which  was  again  blown  grey  and  wild  over  the  swell 
ing  breasts  of  pasture  land.  Then  she  turned  vehemently. 

"Think  of  it!"  she  exclaimed.  "The  beauty  of  a  field 
of  poppies!  The  passionate  loveliness  of  all  those  scarlet 
cups  full  of  sunlight.  And  all  the  while  their  hearts  are 
bitter  with  this  evil — this  horrible  poison !  Oh,  why  don 't 
men  wipe  them  from  the  earth ! ' ' 

Anne  looked  at  her  with  that  wise  kindliness.  "You  for 
get  all  the  good  that  opium  does,"  she  said  brusquely  ten 
der,  after  her  fashion.  "It's  like  so  many  other  things — 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  127 

this  fire  on  your  hearth  for  instance.  A  good  servant  but 
a  bad  master. ' ' 

Just  after  this  conversation  Sophy  went  to  read  aloud 
to  Cecil  at  his  request.  This  also  was  a  new  phase.  He 
could  never  endure  reading  aloud  in  former  days.  Now  he 
would  lie,  dozing  off  now  and  then,  evidently  soothed  agree 
ably  by  the  sound  of  her  low,  rich  voice. 

The  weather  had  turned  raw  and  chilly  again  with  the 
renewed  rain.  Sophy  shivered  suddenly  as  she  sat  reading. 
Anne  Harding,  who  was  tidying  a  little  medicine  chest  on 
a  table  near  by,  noticed  this. 

" Can't  I  fetch  you  a  shawl,  Mrs.  Chesney?"  she  asked, 
looking  up  with  her  alert  black  eyes. 

' '  Thanks ;  but  wouldn  't  you  like  a  fire  lit,  Cecil  ? ' '  Sophy 
asked.  ' '  You  're  so  fond  of  a  fire  in  your  bedroom.  I  can 't 
think  why  Gaynor  hasn't  seen  to  it." 

' '  I  don 't  care  for  a  fire, ' '  said  Chesney  curtly.  ' '  Being 
in  bed  is  stuffy  work  as  it  is. " 

He  lay  nearly  always  in  bed  now. 

"But,  Cecil,  you're  so  used  to  it.  I'm  afraid  being  in 
a  damp  room  like  this  may  give  you  cold.  It  isn't  as  if 
you  were  accustomed  to  doing  without  fire.  Please  let 
Nurse " 

"Don't  nag!"  he  said,  quite  roughly  this  time.  "I  can 
look  after  my  own  wants.  I  'm  not  quite  incompetent  yet. ' ' 

Sophy  glanced  at  the  nurse,  still  anxious.  She  thought 
Anne  Harding 's  eyes  had  a  rather  queer  expression — 
startled. 

"Don't  you  agree  with  me,  Nurse?"  she  asked. 

Anne  lowered  her  eyes  and  busied  herself  again  with  the 
little  chest. 

"I  don't  think  it  matters,"  she  said,  "if  Mr.  Chesney 
really  prefers  it  this  way." 

"Do  get  on  with  your  reading,  Sophy,"  broke  in  Cecil 
impatiently. 

Sophy  took  up  the  book  again,  and  Anne  Harding  went 
to  Tilda  for  a  scarf,  which  she  returned  with  and  put  over 
Sophy's  shoulders. 

As  she  left  the  room,  finally  this  time,  she  glanced  keenly 
at  the  empty  fireplace.  She  thought  she  had  a  clue. 


128  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 


XXIII 

THAT  night,  about  one  o'clock,  as  Chesney  lay  heavily 
asleep  under  the  influence  of  two  grains  of  morphia  (he 
only  dared  to  take  these  large  doses  when  night  was  coming 
on),  the  little  nurse,  Brownie-like  and  cat-foot  in  her  grey 
flannel  wrapper  and  felt  shoes,  stole  into  the  room.  Gay- 
nor  slept  in  his  master's  dressing-room  on  a  cot.  Anne  had 
been  given  a  room  just  opposite.  The  night-light  burned 
behind  a  screen  as  in  London,  and  over  the  ceiling  spread 
huge,  grotesque  shadows  from  chairs  and  tables — shadows 
that  were  a  horror  to  Chesney,  in  the  gruesome  intervals 
between  dose  and  dose.  They  seemed  solid  then,  those 
shadows — informed  with  a  wreird  life.  They  hung  bat-like 
from  his  ceiling,  waiting  to  drop  down  on  him.  Morphia 
gives  the  sick,  unreasoning  fear  that  comes  only  in  dreams 
— the  kind  of  fear  that  will  seize  one  in  such  dreams — at 
the  sight  of  a  grey,  spotted  leaf  shaken  by  a  wind — or  the 
slow  opening  of  a  door  upon  a  void. 

The  little  figure  stood  motionless  a  moment,  listening 
towards  the  bed.  Then  it  stole  over,  bending  close  to  the 
sleeping  man.  With  skilful  light  fingers  Anne  lifted  one 
of  the  sleeper's  heavy  hands,  then  let  it  drop  again  upon 
the  bedclothes.  Chesney  did  not  stir — his  breathing  did 
not  change. 

With  a  brisk  movement  of  satisfaction,  the  nurse  now 
drew  a  black,  oblong  object  from  the  pocket  of  her  dressing- 
gown,  and  going  swiftly  over  to  the  fireplace,  put  the  fen 
der  noiselessly  aside,  and  knelt  down  on  the  hearth.  She 
was  sure,  quite  sure  now,  as  sure  as  one  could  be  of  any 
thing  theoretically  divined,  that  the  hypodermic  syringe 
and  morphia  were  concealed  somewhere  in  that  chimney- 
place.  She  had  looked  there  before,  but  not  in  the  ex 
haustive  way  that  she  meant  to  look  now.  She  had  even 
felt  along  the  shelf  of  the  chimney-throat  with  her  hands, 
but  there  had  been  nothing.  Now,  inch  by  inch,  like  a 
little  Miss  Sherlock  Holmes,  she  meant  to  examine  that  cold, 
sooty  cavity.  The  black  tube  in  her  hand  was  a  small  elec 
tric  pocket-light,  such  as  had  just  come  in  about  that  time. 
When  she  had  looked  before,  she  had  used  her  bedroom 
candle.  Now  she  meant  to  turn  that  bright,  electric  gleam 
on  every  inch  of  the  brickwork  and  metal.  Slowly  she 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  129 

drew  the  pencil  of  light  from  side  to  side,  lying  flat,  and 
beginning  her  search  under  the  bars  of  the  grate;  then, 
crouching,  she  directed  the  ray  higher,  towards  the  bend 
of  the  chimney-throat,  feeling,  tapping,  with  her  free  hand 
as  she  did  so.  A  fire  had  evidently  been  made  there  recently, 
probably  on  the  day  of  Chesney's  arrival;  for,  though 
the  grate  had  been  freshly  polished  only  that  morning 
and  the  housemaid's  broom  had  swept  the  back  of  the 
chimney,  yet  a  slight  fluff  of  soot  clung  to  it  higher  up. 
Anne  touched  this  soot,  pressing  down  her  fingers  firmly, 
delicately,  feeling  for  some  crevice,  some  loose  bit  of  brick 
or  iron.  All  was  firm  and  cold.  She  sat  back  on  her  heels, 
disappointed.  She  looked — crouching  there  in  her  grey 
wrapper,  with  the  short,  black  curls  framing  her  thin, 
baffled  little  face — like  some  determined  child  who  had 
decided  to  watch  and  surprise  Santa  Glaus  in  his  descent 
from  the  roof — and  who  had  watched  in  vain.  Then  sud 
denly  she  knelt  up  again.  Something  had  caught  her 
clever  eyes.  She  noticed — and  at  this,  the  well-regulated 
little  timepiece  of  her  heart  began  to  tick  hurriedly — yes, 
she  had  noticed  that  in  one  corner  of  the  chimney-throat 
there  was  a  broad,  smooth  place  where  the  soot  was  quite 
worn  away.  The  dark-red  fire-brick  showed  plainly 
through.  Anne  passed  the  bright  glowr  of  light  across  this 
smooth  patch  very  slowly.  No ;  the  bricks  were  not  loose 
here.  She  held  the  light  closer,  gazing  with  eyes  nar 
rowed  to  the  utmost  intensity  of  vision.  There  was  a  little 
spot,  or  excrescence,  on  the  brick  near  the  seam  of  the 
corner.  She  had  felt  it  with  her  finger-tips  as  she  drew 
them  lightly  back  and  forth.  She  had  thought  this  rough 
ness  merely  a  defect  in  one  of  the  bricks.  Now  she  touched 
it  again — scraped  it  with  her  nail.  Her  nail  made  no 
sound  against  it.  Then  she  pressed  upon  it.  The  nail 
sank  in.  It  was  perhaps  a  bit  of  putty  left  by  the  work 
men.  But  then  putty  isn't  used  for  building  fireplaces; 
besides,  the  fire  would  have  melted  it  long  ago — 

She  began  to  feel  all  around  it.  Suddenly  something  in 
the  angle,  in  the  seam  where  the  chimney-throat  squared, 
caught  her  eye.  It  looked  like  a  bit  of  black  wire.  She 
picked  at  it  with  her  nail,  and  it  yielded — like  the  string 
of  a  tightly  strung  guitar.  All  at  once  it  flashed  over  the 
little  detective.  That  rough  lump  was  wax ;  it  fixed  the  end 
of  this  black  string  in  place.  The  string  was  taut,  because 


130  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

it  was  held  so — held  by  a  weight  at  the  other  end  prob 
ably.  Anne  did  not  know  anything  about  the  construction 
of  chimney-throats — had  she  done  so,  the  solution  would 
have  come  to  her  sooner.  But  she  guessed  now  that  there 
must  be  a  hollow  behind  the  brickwork  that  faced  her. 
She  slid  her  hand  up  and  forward.  Yes,  there  was  an 
empty  space  behind — the  usual  air-chamber  in  all  well- 
built  chimneys  of  which  she  had  not  known.  Ah,  now  she 
had  it !  Carefully,  very  daintily,  little  by  little,  she  began 
to  pull  up  the  fine  black  silk  cord  which,  as  she  had  guessed, 
passed  from  where  its  end  was  fixed  in  place  by  that  lump 
of  wax  or  putty  down  the  back  of  the  chimney-throat.  It 
answered  readily.  She  felt  the  weight  on  its  other  end 
scraping  against  the  wall  as  she  drew  it  up.  In  another 
moment  she  had  it  in  her  hand — a  little  parcel,  wrapped 
in  oiled  paper.  As  she  broke  open  the  paper  and  looked 
down  at  the  object  in  her  hand,  her  face  was  a  study  of 
elfish  triumph  and  unwilling  admiration. 

"What  couldn't  they  do  to  the  world,  if  they  were  as 
hideously  clever  at  everything  else  as  they  are  at  hiding 
this  stuff!"  thought  Anne  Harding,  referring  to  the  tribe 
of  morphinomaniacs  as  known  to  her  experience. 

She  set  the  fender  back,  and  getting  stiffly  to  her  feet, 
cramped  by  nearly  an  hour's  crouching,  returned  to  her 
own  room  and  locked  the  just- found  hypodermic  case  safely 
away  in  the  bottom  of  her  travelling-box. 

By  five  o'clock  next  morning  Anne  was  fully  dressed, 
capped,  and  aproned.  She  made  herself  a  cup  of  strong 
black  tea  over  her  little  spirit  lamp,  nibbled  two  biscuits, 
and,  glancing  at  her  bracelet- watch,  went  out  with  her 
light,  quick  step.  She  passed  Chesney's  door  and  entered 
the  dressing-room.  Gaynor,  who  slept  as  lightly  as  a  cat, 
started  wide  awake  when  the  nurse  entered.  He  drew  the 
bedclothes  to  his  chin,  feeling  with  his  other  hand  for  his 
dressing-gown  which  lay  on  a  chair  near  by.  He  could 
never  get  used  to  the  unceremonious  entrances  of  this  little 
stranger  woman  into  his  bedroom.  She  came  to  him,  her 
finger  against  her  lips,  bent  down,  and  whispered : 

"I've  found  the  morphia  and  the  syringe  Mr.  Chesney 
has  been  hiding,  Gaynor.  I'm  going  to  tell  him  of  it  my 
self.  He'll  be  rousing  about  now.  No  matter  what  you 
hear,  don't  get  frightened.  I'm  going  to  lock  his  door 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  131 

inside  and  put  the  key  in  my  pocket.  Don't  try  to  inter 
fere — will  you?  Don't  come  to  the  door  or  answer,  even 
if  he  calls  you?" 

Gaynor  had  flushed  deeply  on  hearing  of  his  master's 
detected  falsehood.  Now  he  turned  pale.  "Ain't  you 
afraid,  Miss?"  he  asked.  He  was  always  punctiliously 
civil  to  the  nurse.  He  felt  that  it  would  not  be  respectful 
for  one  in  his  position  to  call  her  "Nurse" — the  little 
woman  who  was  trying  to  save  his  master.  He  had  a  sense 
of  gratitude  and  of  fitness  rare,  not  only  in  a  servant. 

' '  No ! ' '  Anne  whispered  vigorously.  ' '  No ;  I  'm  not  a  bit 
afraid.  I've  had  much  worse  cases  than  this.  I'll  man 
age  him." 

"He's  a  gentleman  with  a  very  high  spirit,  Miss." 

"I'm  not  afraid  of  his  high  spirit.  Maybe  it  won't  be 
so  high  when  I'm  through  with  him.  I'm  an  Australian, 
you  know,  Gaynor.  I  don't  think  Australians  are  as 
afraid  of  their  menfolk  as  Englishwomen.  You  must  keep 
quiet  till  I  'm  through.  That 's  all. ' ' 

She  turned  and  went  out,  passing  through  the  connecting 
door  into  Chesney's  bedroom.  She  locked  the  door  as  she 
had  said,  pocketing  the  key.  Shrewdly  she  glanced  at  the 
still  sleeping  man.  He  had  been  asleep  for  ten  hours  now. 
She  knew  that  at  the  stage  of  morphinomania  that  he  had 
reached  the  effect  of  a  dose  lasted  only  about  four  hours 
when  the  victim  of  the  habit  was  awake,  though  the  heavy, 
drugged  sleep  resulting  from  it  might  drag  on  for  some 
hours  after.  The  least  sound  or  touch  was  sufficient  to 
rouse  him  now.  After  lighting  the  coffee  machine,  she  de 
cided  to  open  the  shutters.  The  cold,  raw  daylight  would 
have  a  wholesomely  chilling  effect,  should  he  show  a  ten 
dency  to  become  violent.  Braver  than  many  soldiers,  the 
little  nurse  went  from  one  window  to  the  other  of  the  large 
bedroom,  throwing  wide  the  shutters  and  fastening  them 
back.  A  gale  was  whipping  the  great  boughs  of  the  trees, 
the  rain  blew  in  upon  her,  spotting  the  bosom  of  her  dress 
and  her  fresh  apron-bib  and  cap.  It  was  like  a  bleak  Sep 
tember  day,  and  it  seemed  strange  to  see  green  leaves  in 
stead  of  yellow  ones  flying  through  the  air. 

"And  this  is  June.  What  a  beastly  climate!"  thought 
the  little  Australian. 

Then  she  turned,  drying  her  face  and  hands  with  her 
handkerchief.  As  she  expected,  Chesney  was  watching  her 


132  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

from  his  pillow.  His  face,  grey  with  morphia  and  glisten 
ing  like  wet  clay  with  the  odious  sweat  that  follows  on  an 
exhausted  dose,  looked  more  deathly  than  a  corpse's  clear, 
waxen  mask. 

"What  o'clock  is  it?"  he  asked,  speaking  thickly  with 
his  pasty  tongue  and  dried  lips. 

"Ten  after  five,"  said  Anne  Harding  briskly.  "You'll 
be  wanting  a  cup  of  coffee,  I  fancy,  sir." 

"Isn't  it  time  for  .  .  .  for  the  ...  er  ...  usual  .  .  . 
thing,  yet?"  Pie  could  never  bring  himself,  in  these  mo 
ments  of  weakness  and  horrible,  faint  desire,  to  name  the 
drug  plainly. 

"Your  allowance  of  morphia?" 

Anne  did  not  mean  to  spare  him.  She  glanced  down  at 
her  bracelet.  How  Chesney  hated  that  tyrannical  watch 
on  the  nurse's  thin  wrist!  It  seemed  like  some  horrible 
wen,  or  tumour,  to  him.  Until  she  had  fussed  over  him  and 
gone  he  could  not  get  the  stuff  out  of  the  chimney-place — 
the  stuff  which  was  now  simply  and  literally  life  to  him. 

"Not  due  for  twenty  minutes  yet,  sir,"  she  said  cheer 
fully,  glancing  up  again.  "But  I'll  just  bathe  your  face 
and  hands  and  bring  you  the  coffee.  It'll  be  ready  by 
then.  I'll  tidy  you  a  bit,  sir,  then  fetch  it." 

There  was  nothing  for  it  but  submission.  Sometimes,  on 
these  occasions,  Chesney  ran  over  in  his  mind  horrid  ways 
in  which  he  would  "pay  back"  this  little  woman  for  the 
misery  she  made  him  endure  in  such  moments,  should  he 
ever  get  her  wholly  in  his  power. 

She  "tidied"  him  deftly,  plumped  up  his  pillows  as  he 
liked  them,  and  fetched  the  coffee.  When  he  had  drunk  it 
(black  and  strong  Anne  made  it,  and  let  him  have  it  with 
out  insisting  on  cream  or  sugar — she  had  her  compassions 
for  these  poor,  mad-willed  beings),  she  lifted  the  tray  from 
the  bed,  and,  glancing  at  her  watch  again,  drew  up  a  chair 
and  sat  down  facing  him. 

"Ten  minutes  yet,  sir,  to  wait,"  she  said.  "And  I've 
something  I  want  to  say  to  you." 

"Well,  say  it,  then,"  said  Chesney  drily.  He  was  too 
weak  just  then  to  feel  fury,  but  what  he  felt  resembled  it 
as  furious  action  in  a  nightmare  sometimes  resembles  real 
action — as  when,  for  instance,  one  tries  to  swim  after  an 
enemy  and  finds  that  one  is  cleaving  one's  way  through 
thick,  clogging  waves  of  treacle. 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  133 

Anne  looked  straight  at  him. 

"It's  this,"  she  said:  "I  want  to  tell  you  myself  that 
I  've  found  your  extra  hypodermic  and  supply  of  morphia. ' ' 

She  rose  as  she  said  this  and  stood  on  her  guard.  Ches- 
ney  stared  blankly  for  a  second;  then  he  gave  a  sort  of 
animal  outcry,  and  half  sprang  from  the  bed. 

"Steady,  Mr.  Chesney!"  called  the  nurse,  sharp  and 
clear.  "I'm  not  afraid  of  you!" 

Chesney  sat,  with  half-suffocated,  soblike  sounds  break 
ing  from  his  great,  naked,  hairy  chest.  His  hands  clenched 
and  unclenched.  The  bedclothes  half  torn  from  the  bed 
by  his  sliding  bound  were  tangled  about  his  feet. 

He  gasped  out  the  words — spat  them  at  her : 

"You  little  civet-cat.  You  damned  little  skunk! 
You 

He  could  not  articulate.  His  teeth  ground  together. 
He  half  rose,  as  though  to  leap  on  her. 

"Keep  still!"  said  she,  in  a  fierce,  low  little  voice. 
"You're  not  ready  for  murder — yet — I  hope.  Nor  you've 
not  sunk  low  enough  to  strike  a  woman — 

' '  Strike  you !  You  little  b h,  I  could  break  you  in 

bits  with  my  bare  hands!" 

They  stayed  glaring  at  each  other.  It  was  the  glare  that 
a  huge  dog  and  a  dauntless  little  cat  exchange  when  death 
is  in  the  air.  Then  Anne  spoke : 

"Be  a  man  .  .  .  for  Gawd's  sake  .  .  .  pretend  to  be  a 
man ! ' '  she  said. 

Chesney  blinked  and  gasped  with  fury  and  weakness,  as 
though  she  had  spat  in  his  face. 

Anne  followed  it  up. 

"Look  here,"  said  she;  "I'm  trying  with  all  my  might 
to  save  you  from  hell  .  .  .  yes,  hell,  sir!"  She  pounded 
her  little  brown  fist  against  her  other  palm.  "And  you 
want  to  kill  me  for  it.  But  I'm  stronger  than  you  are. 
Yes,  I  am !  For  why  ?  For  why  my  nerves  ain  't  rotten 
with  that  filthy  poison  you  love  like  mother's  milk.  And 
I  'm  going  to  save  you  whether  you  will  or  no !  God  or  the 
devil  helping  me — I  don't  much  care  which — I'm  going  to 
save  you !  You  hear  that  ? " 

She  went  closer  to  him — a  little,  furious  figure,  quiver 
ing  with  righteous  rage. 

"D'you  think  I'm  afraid  of  you?  Not  much  I  ain't! 
Just  look  at  me  and  tell  me  what  you  think  about  it. ' ' 


134 

Chesney  sat  hypnotised.  Here  was  the  Mongoose  to  his 
Serpent  with  a  vengeance.  Something  began  to  rise  slowly 
up  in  him — something  clear  and  clean  rising  from  the 
dregs  of  his  stupefied  better  nature.  It  was  that  unwilling 
meed  of  admiration  that  the  conquered  pay  to  a  courageous 
foe.  Suddenly  he  laughed.  It  was  a  shocking  sight  and 
sound,  this  hoarse,  weak  laughter  issuing  from  that  grey, 
sweating  face. 

"By  God!  You  little  Bush-Ranger,  you've  got  guts!" 
he  gasped. 

Anne  was  changed,  as  St.  Paul  says  the  redeemed  will  be 
changed,  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye.  It  was  the  psycho 
logical  moment.  It  came  differently  to  different  patients, 
and  she  arrived  at  it  by  varying  methods,  but  it  always 
came  when  Nurse  Harding  was  on  a  case. 

Her  rigid  figure  relaxed,  her  little  face  softened  with 
her  childlike  smile. 

"See  here.  I'm  your  friend,"  she  said.  "Your  friend, 
man ;  not  your  enemy.  Now  you  just  'fess  up,  as  the  chil 
dren  say.  Tell  me  really  how  much  of  the  stuff  you're  in 
the  habit  of  taking,  and  I'll  make  you  comfy  with  a  dose 
in  proportion,  right  away — this  very  minute.  I  won't  wait 
for  doctor 's  orders  or  anything.  Will  you  tell  me  ?  Eh  ? ' ' 

Her  voice  was  too  pretty  for  words,  thus  wheedling  and 
coaxing  the  huge  man.  So  might  Jenny  Wren  chuck  and 
chirp  to  some  big  Cuckoo-bastard,  to  venture  from  the  nest 
that  her  kind  step-motherhood  had  provided. 

Chesney  was  at  that  point  in  the  fight  when  even  a  great 
lad  will  sob  sometimes  from  sheer  rage  and  exhaustion. 
He  sank  back,  pulling  up  the  sheet  about  his  face  so  as  to 
hide  it  from  her. 

Anne  slipped  the  hypodermic  case  from  her  pocket, 
opened  it,  and  went  over  beside  him. 

"Now,  then  .  .  .  now,  then,"  she  coaxed,  like  some  one 
gentling  a  fractious  horse.  "See — here's  the  blessed, 
devilish  old  stuff.  /  know  how  you're  craving  it — damn  it 
for  a  nasty  half-breed  of  saint  and  fiend!  It's  here — right 
here  in  my  hand.  Only  tell  me — the  truth — about  how 
much  you've  been  giving  yourself,  and  I  swear  to  you 
as  I'm  an  honest  human,  I'll  give  you  enough  to  ease 
you." 

There  was  a  silence.  Then  from  under  the  lifted  sheet 
came  the  words: 


135 

"Twelve  grains  a  day." 

"In  the  twenty-four  hours?" 

"Yes." 

"That's  really  all?  .  .  .  I'm  asking  for  your  own  sake, 
mind  you.  The  dose  will  be  in  proportion,  you  know." 

"As  near  as  I  can  tell — it's  all.  Maybe  now  and  then 
it's  more " 

Suddenly  he  started  up,  flinging  off  the  sheet. 

"Damn  you!  You  little  hell-cat!  Damn  you!"  he 
cried.  "You're  worming  it  out  of  me  for  your  own  ends. 
You  're  lying ! ' ' 

"You're  lying,  and  you  know  it!"  said  Anne  Harding 
sternly.  "Here — keep  still  while  I  prepare  this.  You'll 
soon  know  whether  I'm  lying  or  not  when  I've  given  it 
to  you.  It  doesn't  lie." 

He  closed  his  eyes,  feeling  that  he  lay  in  the  very  bilge- 
water  of  existence.  A  woman — a  scrawny  little  hireling — 
had  him,  Cecil  Chesney,  in  her  power.  Had  made  him 
confess.  Was  about  to  deal  mercy  out  to  him  with  a  drug. 
He  could  have  howled  with  the  Chaldean:  "Cursed  be 
the  day  that  I  was  born  and  the  hour  wherein  I  was  con 
ceived  ! ' ' 

Then  into  his  loathed  flesh  slipped  suddenly  the  little 
sting  of  steel — sweeter  than  the  kiss  of  first  love  to  the 
innocent. 


XXIV 

SOPHY  was  amazed  when  she  learned  what  had  happened. 
So  was  Bellamy,  though  he  had  more  knowledge  than  she 
of  the  singular  powers  exerted  by  the  highest  type  of 
trained  nurse.  They  both  agreed  that  there  was  some 
thing  weird,  almost  legendary,  about  the  conquest  of  the 
huge,  domineering,  self-willed  man  by  the  wee  nurse — a 
feminine  echo,  as  it  were,  of  the  fable  of  Jack  the  Giant 
Killer.  But  this  little  Jill  had  climbed  the  bean-stalk  of 
her  wits  with  no  axe  to  help  her — only  that  keen  blade  of 
her  sane,  fearless  will  and  knowledge. 

Things  went  on  smoothly  for  two  weeks  after  that. 
Chesney,  hating  the  nurse  with  a  bitter,  feverish  hatred, 
yet  submitting  to  her  control,  clung  to  her  with  that  dis 
torted  passion  of  the  man  who  knows  that  his  well-being 


136  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

depends  on  what  he  hates.  Temporarily  he  was  in  their 
power — the  power  of  those  whom  he  called  his  "well- 
wishers"  with  that  ferocious  sneer  of  helpless  anger.  He 
was  too  weak  from  the  lack  of  the  accustomed  doses  which 
he  had  been  taking  surreptitiously  to  ' '  fight  a  good  fight ! ' ' 
for  his  freedom  just  then.  But  let  them  wait!  Just  let 
them  wait  till  he  got  back  his  strength.  He  was  afraid  now 
that  if  he  rebelled  against  Anne  Harding  they  would  get 
another  nurse  for  him,  one  less  independent  and  intelli 
gent,  who  would  not  take  things  in  her  hands  as  Anne  did, 
who  would  follow  the  directions  of  that  soft  fool  Bellamy 
blindly,  and  keep  him  agonising  on  doses  too  rapidly  di 
minished.  Anne  had  promised  that  she  would  not  let  him 
suffer  overmuch. 

"I'm  not  a  doctor-run  machine,"  she  had  said,  in  her 
brisk,  blunt  way.  "I'll  give  you  what  I  think  best,  ivhen 
I  think  best.  If  Doctor  Bellamy  don't  like  it,  he  can  chuck 
me.  But  he  won 't.  He  knows  I  've  had  experience  and  he 
hasn't.  Tisn't  likely  he'll  fuss  with  me,  when  men  like 
Doctor  Carfew  and  Doctor  Playfair  have  trusted  me  and 
been  satisfied  with  my  work.  Just  you  be  a  good  sport, 
and  keep  straight  with  me.  And  I'll  not  let  you  reach  the 
hell  point.  Just  a  peep  of  purgatory,  maybe — for  the  sal 
vation  of  your  soul.  But  you're  plucky.  You'll  stand  a 
bit  of  purgatory  to  get  to  paradise — health  is  really  para 
dise,  you  know.  Eh?"  She  had  wound  up,  with  that  en 
gaging,  little-girl  smile  of  hers. 

Chesney  grinned  rather  feebly,  and  said : 

"All  right,  Bush-Ranger.  'En  voiture,  pour  le  purga- 
toire,  messieurs,  mesdames.'  ' 

"That's  good!"  Anne  said  heartily.  "I  always  know 
they're  mending  when  they  crack  jokes." 

"You've  a  hard  nut  to  crack  in  me,  colonial  snippet!" 
retorted  Chesney,  with  another  grin. 

Anne  grinned  a  cheerful  little  grin  back  at  him. 

"No,  you're  soft  enough,  old  sport,"  said  she;  "it's  your 
husk  of  morphia  that's  hard." 

They  exchanged  this  rough,  free  speech  when  alone.  In 
the  presence  of  others,  Anne  was  most  respectful,  almost 
demure. 

"What  a  hypocritical  little  demi-semi-savage  you  are, 
Bush-lass,"  he  said  to  her  one  day.  "You  give  me  the 
rough  of  your  tongue  like  a  slangy  lad  when  we're  ' enfin 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  137 

sent' — and  before  the  Chief  Eunuch  and  the  rest,  butter 
would  congeal  upon  it,  by  Gad ! ' ' 

' '  There 's  a  time  for  everything, ' '  replied  Anne  Harding 
sedately.  "If  you  prefer  it,  sir,  I'll  be  buttery  with  you 
from  this  moment." 

Chesney  laughed  outright.  He  was  feeling  quite  happy 
just  then,  under  the  effects  of  a  sixth  of  morphia. 

"Just  you  try  it  on,"  he  said,  with  feigned  grimness. 
"When  she  had  just  given  him  the  drug  he  really  liked  her. 
Her  funny,  brisk  little  ways  and  speech  amused  him.  He 
longed  sometimes  to  romp  with  her,  as  if  she  had  been  the 
child  that  she  looked  when  her  elfish  smile  stirred  her  face. 
Once  when  she  had  bent  over  him  as  she  withdrew  the 
needle  from  his  arm,  he  had  tweaked  one  of  the  black  curls 
that  hung  near.  He  had  not  believed  that  her  little  lean 
hand  could  give  such  a  stinging  smack  as  she  bestowed 
upon  his. 

' '  You  little  spitfire ! "  he  had  exclaimed  angrily.  ' '  Don 't 
dare  to  take  liberties  with  me  because  I'm  ill." 

"Don't  you  dare  to  take  liberties  with  me,  ill  or  well," 
Anne  Harding  had  replied,  red  with  anger.  "You  treat 
me  with  proper  respect,  or  I'll  go  back  to  London  by  the 
next  train.  Suit  yourself ." 

She  wouldn't  talk  or  jest  with  him  for  the  rest  of  that 
day,  but  by  the  next  morning  she  seemed  to  have  regained 
her  usual  cool  poise,  and  remarked,  as  she  served  his  early 
cup  of  cocoa : 

"I  surmise  from  your  pretty  behaviour  that  you've  de 
cided  to  keep  me  and  your  self-respect." 

;'Thou  hast  said,  O  Bush-Bully,"  replied  he  gravely. 
"I'll  even  address  your  Bullyship  in  the  third  person  if 
it  be  required." 

' '  Oh,  no  !  There 's  no  need  of  that  much  distance  be 
tween  us,  my  pretty-spoken  gentleman!"  came  the  tart 
rejoinder.  "  'Hands  off!'  is  my  motto.  Just  so  you  re 
member  that  I  live  up  to  it,  and  your  part  is  to  live  up  to 
it,  too,  while  I'm  with  you — I'm  hunky-dory." 

"Does  that  mean  'cheeky'  in  your  native  lingo?" 
grinned  Chesney.  She  was  giving  him  his  morning  dose 
(one-seventh  to-day)  as  he  spoke;  so  for  the  time  being  he 
liked  her  again. 

"No,  Mr.  Smart,"  said  Anne.  "It's  United  States  for 
'all  right.'  : 


138  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

Thus  they  chaffed  amicably  when  she  had  just  given  him 
his  allowance  of  morphia,  or  during  the  first  hour  after; 
but  as  the  effects  gradually  wore  off — which  they  did  rap 
idly,  the  doses  being  so  reduced  by  now — his  mood  changed. 
As  he  felt  that  stark,  indescribable  malaise  stealing  over 
him — that  horrid  unearthly  suffering  which  is  not  nausea, 
or  acute  pain,  or  the  hot  ache  of  fever,  or  the  shivered  ice 
of  chills,  but  something  more  subtle,  more  deathly,  as  it 
were  an  illness  drifted  down  from  another  darker,  crueller, 
more  demoniacal  planet  than  the  earth — as  there  crept 
through  him  this  nameless,  terrible,  hideously  fatiguing 
feeling  that  seemed  to  rack  the  finer  substance  of  a  body 
within  his  body — to  strain  and  fray  these  more  delicate 
fibres  of  being,  until  the  torture  was  far  more  horrible  than 
if  it  had  been  the  brutal  work-a-day  anguish  of  a  frac 
tured  bone,  or  the  frank  throes  of  cholera — when  these 
hours  were  upon  him,  then  he  hated  the  little  nurse.  He 
hated  her  quiet,  practical  composure  as  she  sat  crocheting 
near  the  window,  or  reading  aloud  to  him  words  that  had 
no  meaning — hated  her  for  sitting  there  calm  and  healthy 
—while  the  discomfort  arising  from  the  lack  of  the  usual 
poison  surged  into  billows  of  physical  distress  that  flowed 
over  him,  one  upon  another,  as  he  lay  sweating,  tossing  on 
what  seemed  the  oozy  bed  of  an  ocean  of  malaise.  lie 
hated  her  so  that  he  imagined  breaking  her  to  bits  with  his 
bare  hands,  as  he  had  once  threatened  her.  lie  could  feel 
her  little  hard,  pointed  chin  denting  the  hollow  of  his 
gripped  hand,  as  he  held  her  thin  body  between  his  knees, 
and  pressed  her  head  backwards  till  the  spine  snapped.  He 
imagined  her  naked  in  his  grasp — a  little  dark,  lean,  piti 
fully  ugly  body — and  he  was  beating  her  with  a  stout  wand 
of  ash ;  whipping  the  flesh  in  ribbons  from  her  writhing 
bones.  He  startled  even  himself  with  these  savageries — 
felt  afraid  sometimes.  Was  his  brain  going?  Had  the 
stuff  attacked  his  brain? 

Once,  meeting  his  smouldering  eyes  fixed  avidly  upon 
her  during  one  of  these  silent  rages,  Anne  had  put  down 
the  book  and  come  over  to  him. 

"I  know  how  you're  hating  me,"  she  said,  crisp  and 
practical  as  usual.  "But  don't  get  scared  over  it.  It's 
natural.  This  drug  breeds  murder.  Just  you  remember 
it's  not  you,  but  the  morphine  that  hates  me.  Keep  that 
well  in  mind.  /  do.  Don't  you  worry  about  going  crazy, 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  139 

and  suchlike.  It  takes  years  and  years  for  morphine  really 
to  injure  the  brain.  It's  your  nerves  that  are  yapping  and 
yowling  'murder!' — your  brain's  all  right." 

"I  do  hate  you!"  Chesney  had  said,  with  weak  but 
dreadful  intensity.  "I  could  give  Cain  points  on  murder. 
But  there's  a  part  of  me  that  says  you're  a  damned  good 
sort,  all  the  same." 

"Hate  away,"  Anne  replied  serenely.  "You're  getting 
on  first-rate — that's  all  /  care  about." 

So  it  went,  and  Chesney  slowly  improved;  now  weaker, 
now  stronger,  as  the  capricious  drug  sheathed  its  claws  or 
gripped  him  tight  again. 

' '  Damnation !  I  'm  like  the  frog  in  the  well ! "  he  would 
groan.  ' '  I  crawl  up  one  foot  and  slip  back  two. ' ' 

"No,  you  don't — not  really,"  Anne  assured  him.  "Up 
you're  coming;  slow,  maybe,  but  sure.  A  nice  nurse  I'd 
be  to  let  you  slip  back  two  feet  for  one ! ' ' 

And  she  sniffed  with  her  little  blunt  nose  that  reminded 
him  of  an  intelligent  pug's. 

The  worst  of  it,  the  thing  that  aggravated  him  almost  to 
frenzy  at  these  times,  was  that  he  still  had  morphia  in  his 
possession — a  large  supply  of  that  and  cocaine,  utterly 
unsuspected  by  Anne,  for  all  her  shrewdness.  He  almost 
chuckled  aloud  sometimes  as  he  lay  watching  her  during 
one  of  his  black  fits.  His  spirit  did  chuckle,  as  he  thought 
how  he  had  outwitted  even  her,  the  little  "Bush-Sleuth," 
in  this  matter.  But  he  did  not  dare  to  take  an  extra  dose, 
even  by  mouth.  She  would  have  seen  instantly — and  nosed 
out  the  precious  stuff  that  was  his  dearest  earthly  posses 
sion.  He  was  quite  sure  of  that.  It  cowed  him  from  taking 
the  morphia  that  he  had  secreted,  even  during  those  times 
of  anguish,  when  sometimes  she  stepped  into  the  next  room 
for  a  moment  to  fetch  something  and  he  could  have  swal 
lowed  a  tablet  easily — it  was  within  reach  always.  No ;  he 
did  not  dare  for  the  sake  of  one  moment's  self-indulgence, 
to  run  the  risk  of  still  greater  sufferings.  So  he  lay  there, 
enduring,  cursing  silently,  waiting,  ever  waiting,  for  the 
time  to  come  when  he  should  be  his  own  man  again.  Then 
hey!  for  some  distant  country — a  long  journey  en  gar$on — 
with  a  glittering,  brand-new  needle,  and  package  on  pack 
age  of  the  little  fiat,  white,  innocent-looking  tablets  that 
dissolved  so  easily  in  a  teaspoonful  of  warm  water. 


140  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

There  were  no  more  drives  now :  he  was  too  weak.  Anne 
said  that  in  about  six  weeks  he  would  begin  to  feel  more 
normal,  though  he  would  still  be  weak.  He  would  feel 
depressed  and  weak  for  a  long  time  after  his  system  was 
rid  of  the  poison,  she  warned  him  with  her  admirable 
frankness.  !Six  weeks  more  of  it !  Good  God !  He  won 
dered  that  he  could  keep  his  hands  from  her  when  she  said 
such  things  to  him  in  that  matter-of-fact,  casual  way.  But 
he  waited.  Chance  was  a  good  deity  for  such  as  he  to  pray 
to.  One  never  knew  what  might  happen.  So  he  lay  there 
and  said  curt,  impious  prayers  to  Chance  that  the  God  of 
Whimsy  would  help  him  to  his  own  undoing. 

Chance  himself  serves  sometimes  one  Overlord,  some 
times  another.  Sometimes  he  plays  henchman  to  Ormuzd, 
sometimes  to  Ahriman.  This  time  he  elected  to  do  the 
bidding  of  Ahriman. 

On  the  fifteenth  day  after  Chesney's  enforced  confes 
sion  to  the  little  nurse,  there  came  a  wire  from  London  for 
Anne  Harding.  It  said : 

"Your  mother  ill — pneumonia.     Come  at  once." 

There  was  nothing  else  for  it.  She  had  to  go,  and  by  the 
next  train.  She  loved  her  mother,  whom  she  supported  by 
her  cleverness,  very  dearly ;  yet  there  was  almost  an  equal 
grief  in  her  strongly  professional  little  heart  at  leaving  a 
case  so  difficult,  which  she  had  managed  with  such  skill. 

She  tried  to  get  Chesney  to  promise  her  on  his  word  of 
honour  to  "act  straight"  with  the  nurse  who  would  sup 
plant  her,  promising  that  if  he  did  so  she  would  return  as 
soon  as  her  mother  was  well  enough,  and  take  up  his  case 
again.  But  he  would  only  smile  at  her  that  faintly  jeering 
smile,  which  she  felt  in  the  marrow  of  her  small  bones 
meant  mischief. 

"Your  word  of  honour — your  word  of  honour  as  a  gen 
tleman  that  you'll  play  fair,"  she  urged  vehemently,  "or  I 
swear  I  '11  not  come  back ! ' ' 

"You  forget,  my  little  Bush-Queen,"  Chesney  said,  still 
smiling,  "there's  no  such  thing  as  honour  among  morphino- 
maniacs.  You've  told  me  that  yourself,  often  enough,  my 
Poppet,  have  you  not?" 

"Shame!  Shame !"  she  cried,  with  passion.  "Here  you 
are,  through  the  worst — and  you  won't  even  promise  that 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  141 

you  '11  keep  on !    My  word !     I  don 't  believe  I  '11  come  back, 
no  matter  how  you  act!" 

"  'Suit  yourself,'  Bush-lass,"  Chesney  returned  coolly, 
quoting  one  of  her  favourite  expressions. 

Anne  went  to  Sophy  before  leaving — went  to  her  bed 
room  and  under  the  unusual  excitement  of  her  double  anx 
iety  over  parent  and  patient,  seized  the  slender  white  hands 
in  her  little  skinny  brown  ones,  wringing  them  eagerly  to 
accentuate  her  passionate  words  of  warning. 

"Watch  him  yourself — yourself!"  she  begged.  "Don't 
trust  him  a  moment — not  though  he  swore  on  the  head  of 
his  own  son.  He  means  mischief.  I  know  him  by  now. 
I  know  him  as  only  a  nurse  who 's  tussled  through  the  worst 
of  the  morphia  craze  with  a  man  can  know  him.  Don't 
leave  him  to  Gaynor,  or  his  mother,  or  even  Doctor  Bell 
amy.  I  don't  know  what  sort  of  nurse  they'll  send  you. 
She  may  be  good,  or  she  may  be  a  chump.  But" — the 
little  spurt  of  very  human  vanity  became  her  eager,  cocky 
face — "but  there's  not  many  Anne  Hardings,"  she  wound 
up.  "I  give  you  that  for  what  it's  worth,  Mrs.  Chesney. 
Forgive  my  tooting  my  own  trumpet. ' ' 

Sophy  promised,  feeling  scared  and  forlorn  again,  now 
that  this  strong  little  being  was  going.  She  had  come  to 
depend  on  her  as  the  one  means  of  Cecil 's  salvation.  Now 
she  was  going.  Menace,  dark  and  formless,  seemed  to 
waver  like  an  evil  shadow  on  the  dreary  walls  of  Dyne- 
hurst.  How  could  one  grapple  with  a  shadow  ?  Only  Anne 
Harding  knew  the  magic  tune  to  which  evil  shadows  danced 
obedience. 

The  little  nurse  left  within  an  hour  after  receiving  the 
telegram,  and  Sophy  went  to  her  husband  as  soon  as  the 
carriage  drove  from  the  door.  Anne  had  turned  over  her 
charts  to  her,  with  the  hypodermic  syringes  and  morphia. 
As  the  nurse  had  instructed,  she  locked  everything  away 
before  leaving  her  room.  Between  every  dose  they  must 
be  locked  away  again.  No  slightest  risk  must  be  run,  in 
the  interval  between  Anne's  departure  and  the  arrival  of 
the  new  nurse. 

When  Sophy  had  faltered  that  she  did  not  know  how  to 
give  a  hypodermic  injection,  Anne  had  exclaimed  almost 
impatiently:  "Oh,  he  can  do  that,  himself — only  too  well! 
All  you've  got  to  do  is  to  clean  it  thoroughly  the  way  I've 


142  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

showed  you,  each  time  afterwards.  I  don't  want  Gay  nor 
to  begin  it,  because  one  at  a  time  is  enough  in  such  things, 
and  you  are  the  one  to  leave  in  charge.  You've  got  charac 
ter — grit."  She  looked  at  Sophy  impartially  out  of  her 
shrewd,  black  eyes.  "I  don't  believe  you  know,  yourself, 
how  much  character  you  have  got,"  she  said.  "You're  too 
young  and  beautiful  to  have  had  much  chance  yet — but 
this  is  forming  you.  Forgive  my  Bush-girl  bluntness — 
but  there's  no  better  character-maker  than  a  husband  one's 
trying  to  save  from  morphia.  You'll  come  out  of  it  a 
sort  of  soldier-saint.  Mark  my  words:  Happiness  is 
mush,"  said  the  little  nurse,  running  her  words  together 
in  her  excitement.  "One  can't  get  strong  on  mush.  Now 
life's  feeding  you  meat — a  bit  raw  and  bloody,  maybe — 
but  it'll  build  up  brawn — soul-brawn.  I'm  mixing  things; 
but  you  understand,  I  know.  And,  my  word  !  Just  think, 
Mrs.  Chesney :  if  a  woman  forgets  her  travail  for  joy  that  a 
man  is  born  into  the  world,  what  must  she  feel  when  a 
man — her  man — is  re-born  through  her  pangs!  Forgive 
me — I'm  being  too  free.  But  you're  so  rare — oh,  I've 
watched  you,  same  as  I've  watched  him!  And  I  want  you 
to  win  out — I  lust  for  it — for  you  to  win  out  with  him. 
You'll  feel  you've  got  the  world  in  a  sling  then — I  give  you 
my  word  you  will,  Mrs.  Chesney.  Only  keep  a  stiff  upper 
lip.  Don't  give  in  to  him.  Don't  let  him  fool  you.  The 
watchword  is  'Suspicion.'  Don't  trust  him — not  if  he 
seems  dying.  Let  him  die  before  you  trust  him  for  one 
second !  Bless  you,  dear  lady !  I  do  hate  to  leave  you  all 
alone  with  it.  .  .  .  Good-bye." 

And  she  was  gone  before  Sophy  could  even  utter  some 
kind  wishes  about  Mrs.  Harding 's  recovery. 


XXV 

WHEN"  Sophy  went  to  Cecil's  room,  he  was  lying  back 
quietly  reading.  He  put  down  his  book  as  she  entered,  and 
smiled  at  her.  It  was  his  own,  good  smile — the  smile  that 
she  remembered  far  back  in  their  lover-days.  Tears  rushed 
to  her  eyes.  She  was  not  a  woman  who  wept  easily ;  but 
now,  to  see  his  face  so  purified  of  poison,  to  meet  the  smile 
that  also  shone  in  the  eyes — that  glimpse  of  a  resurrected 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  143 

soul  in  the  face  that  had  so  long  been  but  a  blurred  mask 
of  exotic  passions — this  brought  her  tears. 

She  went  over,  kneeled  down  beside  him,  and  laid  her 
face  to  his. 

"I've  got  you  back!"  she  whispered.  "You've  come 
back  to  me ! ' ' 

He  lay  still,  stroking  her  hair,  kissing  it,  looking  out 
over  her  head  at  the  flicker  of  leaves  beyond  his  window,  at 
the  dim  green  of  air-veiled  pastures,  and  the  far-away  blur 
of  brownish  haze  that  hung  over  the  mining  town,  chief 
source  of  the  Wychcote  riches.  A  bird  streaked  like  a 
black  arrow  against  the  faint  blue  sky.  The  weather  had 
cleared  within  the  last  few  days.  There  was  sunshine,  pale 
but  plenteous — filtering  through  a  veil  of  moony  clouds. 
A  sort  of  eclipse-light,  it  seemed  to  Sophy;  but  she  wel 
comed  it  for  Bobby's  sake — the  child  had  been  fretting  at 
the  prolonged  rain.  He  had  lost  his  sturdy,  lady-apple 
cheeks.  Now  he  could  be  out  all  day  pottering  at  the  out- 
of-door  things  that  children  love. 

She  knelt  there  with  her  cheek  against  her  husband's, 
just  resting,  soul  and  body.  She  was  too  tired  with  the 
long  strain  to  vibrate  to  a  keener  joy.  Her  thankfulness 
was  deep  rather  than  exultant.  And  Chesney,  gazing  out 
at  the  summer  landscape,  thought : 

"After  all — what  if  I  go  on  with  it?  I'm  lower  than 
brutes  if  I  deceive  her." 

Weariness  and  a  distaste  of  life  crept  over  him  at  the 
mere  thought  of  keeping  up  the  dreadful,  nerve-wearing 
effort. 

"I  must.  There's  no  way  out  of  it — with  decency," 
said  part  of  him.  "Fate's  against  me,"  said  another  part. 
"Why  was  the  little  Bush-Ranger  whipped  away  like  that, 
if  there  are  gods  that  care  ?  It 's  too  much  to  ask  a  man  to 
keep  up  alone.  I'm  sickening  for  the  stuff  this  moment. 
Between  the  lips  of  this  woman — beautiful  as  she  is — 
and  one  grain  of  morphia — would  I  hesitate?"  "No," 
answered  the  first  self,  grimly  honest.  "You  wouldn't. 
Try  to  tell  her  you  have  the  stuff  at  hand.  Give  it  up  to 
her.  You  won 't.  You  can 't. ' ' 

"I  will!"  he  thought,  setting  his  teeth. 

She  felt  the  swell  of  his  cheek-muscles  as  he  did  so,  and 
looked  up. 

"Sophy  .  .  ."he  said;  then  stopped  short. 


144  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

' '  What  is  it,  dear  ? ' '  she  asked.  ' '  Can  I  do  something  for 
you?" 

He  continued  looking  at  her  an  instant,  then  closed  his 
eyes. 

"No,"  he  said. 

She  thought  his  expression  had  been  strange.  It  hurt 
her.  It  was  as  if  he  had  wanted  something,  but  did  not 
dare  ask  her  for  it.  She  flushed  suddenly — it  was  for  him. 
she  flushed.  She  thought  that  he  had  been  about  to  coax 
her  for  the  morphia  before  the  time  for  giving  it.  Was  he 
going  to  ' '  try  it  on  with  her, ' '  as  little  Anne  had  feared  ? 
Her  limbs  seemed  to  turn  to  water  at  the  mere  thought  of 
that  possible  struggle. 

But  he  said  quietly  the  next  moment : 

"Sophy,  the  little  Harding  says  that  she'll  come  back 
here,  w'hen  her  mother  is  well  enough.  That  being  so,  I 
want  to  ask  you  a  favour." 

"Yes — do!"  she  said  eagerly. 

"I  want  to  ask  you  to  take  me  in  hand  yourself.  You 
have  all  the — the  stuff."  The  lie  choked  him  somehow. 
He  hastened  to  correct  its  literalness  though  not  its  import. 
"I  mean  nurse  said  that  she  was  going  to  turn  it  over  to 
you." 

"Yes — I  have  it,"  said  Sophy.  Why  should  her  heart 
beat  so?  He  was  only  asking  her  to  do  what  Anne  had 
asked  her. 

"Well,  then,  there  is  something  you  can  do  for  me — you 
can  spare  me  the  humiliation  of  having  some  strange  wench 
pottering  about,  and  bulldozing  me  with  her  dirty  little 
professional  airs  and  graces.  If  you'll  take  me  in  hand 
yourself,  and  spare  me  that,  you  '11  find  me  amenable.  Will 
you  ?  Wait  a  moment, ' '  he  added,  before  she  could  answer. 
"It's  only  fair  to  give  you  warning  that  I  will  not  submit 
in  any  case  to  having  another  of  these  hussies  round  me. 
The  Harding  was  bad  enough,  but  I've  got  used  to  her — I 
rather  like  her — tough  little  specimen !  She  amuses  me. 
But  another — I'll  wring  her  neck  before  I'll  submit  to  it! 
That's  my  last  word  on  the  subject." 

Bellamy  was  much  perturbed  at  this  fiat  of  Chesney. 
Yet,  when  he  had  thought  over  it  a  while,  realising  the 
stubborn  fixedness  of  the  man 's  will  and  fearing  to  irritate 
him  unnecessarily,  he  came  to  the  conclusion  that  it  was 


145 

not  so  dangerous  a  situation  as  he  had  at  first  thought. 
He  could  trust  Sophy,  he  felt  sure,  not  to  be  moved  by  any 
pleading  on  the  part  of  her  husband.  All  the  morphia  was 
now  in  her  possession.  There  was  no  other  possible  means 
by  which  Chesney  could  obtain  the  drug.  All  parcels  were 
opened  by  Mrs.  Chesney  or  his  mother.  Besides,  Chesney 
wrote  no  letters.  He  seemed  perfectly  indifferent  about  the 
post.  Such  letters  as  did  come  for  him  only  bored  him. 
They  were  all  answered  by  his  wife  and  Gaynor.  Then, 
too,  it  was  a  great  concession  on  Chesney 's  part  to  be  will 
ing  for  Anne  Harding 's  return. 

When  after  two  days  she  wrote  that  her  mother  had 
passed  the  crisis  and  was  rapidly  improving,  that  she 
(Anne)  hoped  to  be  able  to  return  to  Dynehurst  within 
three  weeks,  he  felt  quite  reconciled  to  the  present  arrange 
ment.  Sophy  reported  that  Chesney  never  asked  for  a  dose 
before  the  regular  hours,  or  for  an  increase  of  the  amount. 
She,  too,  was  cheered  and  hopeful. 

For  a  week  this  happy  state  of  things  lasted.  Then  one 
morning,  after  his  daily  visit  to  Chesney 's  room,  Bellamy 
came  to  her  with  an  harassed  face. 

"Mrs.  Chesney,"  he  said,  "don't  take  it  too  hard — but 
your  husband  has  got  hold  of  morphia  in  some  way.  The 
symptoms  are  marked  this  morning.  It's  inconceivable,  I 
know ;  but  there 's  the  fact. ' ' 

Sophy's  air-castle  broke  in  upon  her  in  smothering  va 
pours.  She  sank  down  on  the  nearest  chair,  and  gazed  out 
before  her  with  blank  eyes. 

"Are  you  sure?"  she  asked  mechanically,  after  a  mo 
ment. 

"Quite  sure." 

"Since  when?" 

"Only  recently — during  the  night,  probably.  But  the 
eyes  show  it  unmistakably — and  the  dryness  of  the  mucous 
membrane. ' ' 

"I  know,"  said  Sophy.  So  well  she  knew  that  she  felt 
as  if  her  own  mouth  were  like  an  ash,  merely  from  her  vivid 
realisation  of  the  doctor's  words. 

"Have  you  taxed  him  with  it?"  she  then  asked. 

"Yes.  He  only  jeers.  Asks  me  how  he  could  have  got 
it — says  that  he's  not  a  wizard.  It's  terrible,  Mrs.  Chesney, 
terrible!  If  Nurse  Harding  were  only  here!" 

"Yes.     It  seems  as  if  Fate  were  against  him." 


146  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

"Fate!"  cried  Bellamy.  "Himself,  you  mean!  How 
he  could  descend  to  this  when — 

He  broke  oft'  abruptly,  shocked  by  the  white  hopelessness 
of  the  young  face. 

"Forgive  me,"  he  said.  "Besides,  one  should  never 
judge  too  harshly  in  these  cases.  I've  heard  of  men,  anx 
ious  to  be  cured,  getting  well  over  the  cursed  thing,  get 
ting  quite  free  of  it  for  as  much  as  a  year,  then,  in  some 
sudden  moment  of  weakness,  returning  to  it." 

Suddenly  a  vigorous,  alert  look  replaced  Sophy's  passive 
expression.  She  stood  up,  facing  the  perturbed  physician. 

"What  must  we  do?"  she  asked.  "I  am  ready  to  do 
anything  to  save  him.  Anything  that  I  may  do  with  self- 
respect — anything  that  will  not  put  my  boy  in  danger. 
Explain  to  me.  AVhatever  it  is,  I  will  do  it — if  it  is  in  my 
power. ' ' 

She  shone  white  and  vivid  against  the  grey,  rain-strung 
frame  of  the  hall  window.  She  dazzled  there  in  the  dark, 
grim  hall,  flashing  something  free  and  Amazonian  into  the 
staid  discreetness  of  the  sober,  conventional  house.  Bell 
amy  watched  her,  without  being  quite  able  to  translate 
into  clear  thought  the  impression  that  she  produced  on 
him  at  that  moment. 

She  put  it  into  words  for  him  herself:  "I  mean  that  I 
will  fight  for  him  like  a  comrade — not  like  a  submissive 
wife — a  slave,"  she  said. 

She  stood  for  a  moment  looking  down  at  her  shoe-tip 
which  she  moved  slightly  to  and  fro.  Then  she  said 
abruptly : 

"How  is  my  boy?  Does  his  paleness  mean  that  he  is 
not  well  really — or  is  it  only  a  passing  thing  ? ' ' 

"No,  no,"  he  hastened  to  reassure  her.  "The  boy  feels 
the  confinement  of  the  house,  of  course,  but  a  week  of 
sunny  weather  would  have  him  right  as  a  trivet." 

"And  if  it  keeps  on  raining?" 

"I  hardly  think  it  will.  "We  are  nearly  in  July  now. 
Rainy  Junes  are  frequent  in  England,  you  know ;  but  July 
is  apt  to  show  some  fine  weather." 

"But  in  case  it  does  not?"  she  persisted. 

"Then  I  think  a  little  outing  to  the  Isle  of  Wight  or  the 
south  of  France  might  be  the  thing." 

She  pondered  this. 

"I  see,"  she  said  at  last.     "And  will  you  promise  to  tell 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  147 

me,  the  moment  that  you  think  Bobby  needs  such  a 
change  ? ' ' 

"I  do,  indeed,"  he  replied  earnestly. 

"Thank  you.  Now  I  feel  free  to  give  all  my  attention 
to  my  husband — for  the  present.  I  shall  go  to  him  myself 
now.  It  seems  to  me  the  last  hope  that  we  have. " 

"You  mean  that  you  will  try  to  persuade  him  to — to — 
er — be  frank  with  you  ? ' ' 

"Yes." 

Bellamy  looked  at  her  in  genuine  distress. 

"I'm  afraid  you  must  prepare  yourself  for  disappoint 
ment,  Mrs.  Chesney. " 

"I  am  prepared  for  it,"  she  said.  Her  voice  was  grave, 
but  under  the  gravity  there  was  depth  on  depth  of  bitter 
ness. 

"AVell — God  be  with  you!"  said  Bellamy,  with  much 
feeling. 

"Thank  you,"  she  said  gently. 

She  passed  out  of  his  sight,  going  upstairs  towards  her 
husband 's  room. 

XXVI 

To  do  Chesney  justice,  he  had  not  taken  that  first  dose  of 
the  extra  morphia  in  his  possession  with  any  calm  deter 
mination  of  deceit.  The  craving  for  it,  the  constant  temp 
tation  so  close  at  hand,  had  led  him  into  that  subtle,  false 
reasoning  so  common  to  all  people  in  like  case.  He  had 
deceived  himself  as  well  as  others.  It  happened  in  this 
way :  Sophy,  burning  with  all  the  over-ardour  of  a  novice, 
with  all  the  exaggerated  zeal  of  the  amateur  nurse,  put  on 
her  mettle,  as  it  were,  by  the  warnings  and  conjurations 
of  Anne  Harding,  acted  with  the  precision  of  clockwork. 
Showed,  in  fact,  to  its  nth  power  the  very  quality  which 
Anne  prided  herself  on  lacking — the  precision  of  a  "doc 
tor-run  machine. "  It  could  not  have  been  otherwise.  She 
had  neither  the  knowledge  nor  the  experience  which  al 
lowed  Anne  to  vary  the  regularity  of  the  hours  of  assuage 
ment,  those  hours  when  the  fractional  doses  of  the  drug 
were  to  be  given  him,  and  to  which  he  looked  forward  as 
to  bits  of  life  in  the  slow,  grey  deathliness  that  enfolded 
him.  At  times  his  nervousness,  the  anguish  of  morbid  de 
sire,  was  far  more  acute  than  at  others.  On  these  occa- 


148  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

sions  Anne  had  been  used,  after  observing  him  narrowly, 
to  give  him  the  prescribed  amount,  sometimes  even  an  hour 
before  the  due  time.  Again,  she  would  say  with  rough 
kindliness : 

"Well,  will  you  brace  up  and  go  without  for,  say  two 
extra  hours  next  time,  if  I  give  you  a  crumb  more  than  you 
really  ought  to  have  ? ' ' 

These  concessions  of  his  little  tyrant  so  wrought  on  both 
the  gratitude  and  the  pride  of  the  man,  whom  morphia  had 
reduced  to  a  certain  childlike  weakness,  that  he,  on  his 
part,  would  sometimes  stretch  the  interval  of  abstinence 
even  longer  than  she  had  required.  When,  therefore,  he 
found  himself,  all  at  once,  in  the  unyielding  straitjacket 
of  Sophy's  conscientious  care,  rebellion  began  to  glow  in 
him  like  a  fever.  Once  he  had  tried  to  explain  to  her 
Anne 's  more  elastic  methods ;  but  though  Sophy  met  him 
very  sweetly,  he  saw  the  little  shock  that  had  liitted  through 
her  eyes.  She  suspected  him  of  trying  to  coax  her  with 
plausible  lies.  Had  not  Anne  warned  her  not  to  trust  him  ? 
The  little  nurse  had  chiefly  meant  that  she  must  not  trust 
him  by  leaving  the  drug  in  the  remotest  way  accessible  to 
him ;  but  then  Anne  could  not  have  instructed  Sophy  to 
practise  her  own  leniency.  It  was  one  of  those  situations 
to  which  the  word  "fatal"  can  be  \vell  applied. 

A  second  time,  when  suffering  from  one  of  his  severe 
headaches,  in  addition  to  the  horrid,  chill,  damp  nervous 
ness,  Chesney  had  again  ventured  (sullenly  angry  at  the 
enforced  humility  of  his  attitude)  to  suggest  that  she  give 
him  a  slightly  larger  dose,  skipping  the  next  dose  entirely, 
if  she  wished. 

Sophy's  look  had  been  full  of  frank  reproach  and  grief 
this  time.  "Ah,  Cecil!  How  can  you  ask  me  such  a 
thing?"  she  had  exclaimed.  She  had  come  and  knelt  be 
side  him,  taking  his  clammy  hand,  which  resisted  the  clasp 
of  the  smooth,  warm  fingers  so  full  of  health  and  love. 
"Don't  you  know  it's  because  I  love  you  that  I  must  re 
fuse  ?  Why  do  you  look  at  me  so  angrily  ?  You  asked  me 
to  do  this  for  you,  dear.  I'm  only  doing  what  you  asked 
me  to  .  .  ." 

But  he  had  jerked  his  hand  roughly  away.  He  hated 
her  at  that  moment.  "She'll  drive  me  to  it,  with  her  smug 
self-righteousness  .  .  .  ignorant,  sentimental  fool ! ' '  He 
feigned  to  drop  asleep  after  a  few  minutes,  watching  her 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  149 

all  the  time  from  under  his  lowered  lids — detesting  her — 
wondering  why  he  had  ever  married  her.  How  damned 
prim  her  mouth  had  looked  when  she  refused  him !  Fancy 
kissing  a  mouth  like  that  with  passion !  What  an  ass  he 
had  been !  And  he  had  thought  her  such  a  marvel  of  intel 
ligence  and  sympathy !  The  little  Bush-Ranger  had  more 
real  brains  in  her  skinny  finger-tip — her  rough  slang  held 
more  human  sympathy  than  all  that  other 's  gush  of  frilled, 
silky  words!  Very  well.  He'd  take  things  in  his  own 
hands.  He'd  "  'fess  up"  to  the  little  Harding  when  she 
returned ;  but  in  the  meantime  he  was  going  to  do  for  him 
self  what  she  had  so  often  done  for  him — take  a  slightly 
larger  dose  to  ease  this  damned  pain  that  was  prizing  his 
skull  asunder.  Yes,  by  God!  He  was  a  bally  simpleton 
not  to  have  done  it  before ! 

It  amused  him  to  reach  stealthily  for  the  little  tablet 
(he  had  it  to  his  hand)  and  take  it  "under  Sophy's 
nose, "  as  it  were — watching  her  all  the  time  from  between 
his  lashes.  She  was  sitting  near  a  window,  chin  on  hand, 
gazing  out  at  the  sky  which  seemed  to  her  so  like  a  vast 
ground-glass  cover  set  above  the  green  bowl  of  the  earth. 
He  grew  impatient,  waiting  for  the  slow  effect  of  the  mor 
phia,  thus  taken  into  his  stomach.  He  missed  that  pringle 
of  the  stuff  when  hypodermically  administered,  quick 
through  his  veins.  Then  it  occurred  to  him  that  these 
were  hypodermic  tablets — they  would  naturally  be  weaker 
than  those  to  be  taken  by  mouth.  He  took  another  quarter- 
grain  tablet.  Its  vile  bitterness  seemed  delicious  to  him. 
All  at  once  he  felt  that  grip  at  his  midriff,  as  of  a  tiny  claw 
clutching  and  teasing.  Triumph  seized  him.  He  looked 
at  her  mockingly,  his  eyes  wide  open  now.  He  did  not 
hate  her  any  longer.  She  amused  him  now.  It  was  even 
very  pleasant  to  watch  her  sitting  there  in  her  dejected 
attitude  of  unwilling  Tyrant.  She  was  not  the  stuff  of 
which  real  tyrants  are  made.  It  took  gritty  little  devils 
like  the  Bush-Bully  to  tyrannise  with  eclat.  .  .  . 

So  it  had  begun. 

But  unfortunately  the  self-administration  of  morphia  is 
not  a  thing  that  can  be  moderately  done.  Soon  Chesney 
began  to  confuse  the  number  of  doses ;  could  not  remember 
exactly  when  he  had  last  taken  the  stuff ;  would  swallow  a 
tablet  at  the  least  symptom  of  physical  malaise.  He 
seemed  stronger;  wished  to  get  up.  Then  came  the  morn- 


150  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

ing  when  the  larger  dose  revealed  its  presence  clearly  to 
Bellamy. 

Sophy  went  to  Cecil,  all  her  soul  in  arms  for  him,  not 
against  him ;  but  he  met  her  with  easy  mockery.  Would 
not  admit  it.  Played  with  her.  She  had  tried  to  tyrannise 
— well,  let  her  tyrannise,  then. 

"If  you're  so  damned  sure  I've  got  the  stuff,  why  don't 
you  find  it?"  he  jeered.  "Why  didn't  the  little  Bush- 
Sleuth  unearth  it  ?  She 's  got  the  nose  of  a  Pytchley  bitch 
— the  baggage!" 

The  poison  was  at  its  ugly  work  again.  In  its  deaden 
ing  clasp,  kindliness  and  fellow-feeling  lay  numb ;  the 
sheer  brute  ramped  free — the  strong,  coarse,  primal  animal 
which  morphia  rouses,  at  first  merely  to  a  savage  irritation 
but  later  informs  with  more  than  ape-like  cunning,  with 
a  callous  cruelty  lower  than  the  brute's  because  moved  by 
more  than  the  brute's  intelligence. 

And  within  a  wreek  from  his  first  lapse  the  change  in 
Chesney  had  become  alarming.  Something  was  here  that 
Bellamy  could  not  understand.  Dilated  pupils  and  violent 
rages,  as  in  London.  A  sort  of  false  vigour  that  sent  him 
roaming  about  the  house  at  times — haranguing  in  his  bril 
liant,  bitter  way — insolent,  vituperative,  insupportable. 
Sick  with  humiliation,  Sophy  told  the  physician  of  what 
Dr.  Carfew  had  said  :  that  Chesney  alternated  the  morphia 
with  cocaine. 

So  strange  and  wild  were  his  brother's  moods  that  Ger 
ald  had  to  be  taken  into  confidence.  Even  Lady  Wychcote 
agreed  that  Bellamy  should  wire  to  London  for  a  man- 
nurse  ;  but  she  held  out  implacably  against  all  idea  of  com 
mitting  Cecil  against  his  will  to  a  sanatorium. 

"It's  a  phase,"  she  kept  saying.  "It's  a  phase.  When 
Nurse  Harding  comes  back,  she  will  know  what  to  do." 

And  all  the  while  it  rained,  ever  rained — now  lightly, 
now  whelmingly.  The  climate  was  like  a  vast  Melancholia 
wrapping  England  as  in  sickness. 

Search  was  made  everywhere  for  the  concealed  drugs. 
Sophy  lay  awake  at  night,  racking  her  brain  for  possible 
solutions,  until  it  haunted  her  dreams  like  a  dark  rebus, 
cluttering  her  only  half-unconscious  brain  with  the  refuse 
of  rejected  theories. 

The  man-nurse  came.    When  he  entered  Chesney 's  room, 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  151 

he  was  flung  out  so  violently  by  the  enraged  giant  (Ches- 
ney  stood  six-foot-four  in  his  socks)  that  he  barely  missed 
having  his  arm  broken  against  the  opposite  wall. 

The  man,  white  with  wrath  and  pain,  went  straight  to 
the  library  where  the  family  had  gathered  about  Bellamy, 
apprehensive  and  anxious  as  to  the  nurse's  reception.  He 
had  chosen  himself  to  go  alone.  Pie  told  them  that  for  no 
consideration  would  he  attempt  the  case,  unless  he  were 
given  "a  free  hand."  When  coldly  required  by  Lady 
Wychcote  to  state  what  he  meant  precisely  by  "a  free 
hand,"  he  had  replied  sullenly  that  he  must  be  given  per 
mission  to  use  violence  in  return — that  is,  to  defend  him 
self  by  a  blow,  if  attacked,  and  to  resort  to  binding  the 
patient,  if  necessary. 

"In  other  words,  you  wish  to  introduce  the  methods  of 
a  lunatic  asylum  into  my  house,"  said  Lady  Wychcote 
haughtily.  "That  will  do.  We  shall  not  need  your  serv 
ices." 

The  man  turned  away,  muttering  that  "madhouse  meth 
ods  were  made  for  madmen." 

Bellamy  tried  to  persuade  Lady  Wychcote  to  send  for 
Dr.  Carfew  and  have  Cecil  placed  in  a  sanatorium  by 
force. 

"Never  shall  that  be  done — never  while  I  live,"  she  said 
resolutely.  ' '  I  will  not  have  such  a  stigma  put  upon  a  son 
of  mine.  Let  him  die,  if  he  must.  Better  dead  than  with 
the  shame  of  madness  put  upon  him. ' ' 

In  vain  Bellamy  argued  with  her,  pointing  out  the  dif 
ference  between  a  sanatorium  and  a  madhouse.  She  was 
adamant. 

' '  Never !    Never ! ' '  she  kept  repeating. 

In  despair,  Sophy  herself  telegraphed  to  Anne  Harding. 
The  answer  somewhat  consoled  her: 

"Mother  doing  well.     Will  come  Thursday." 

This  was  Sunday.  In  three  days,  then,  the  little  nurse 
would  be  in  charge  again. 

When  Chesney  heard  this,  that  awful,  blind  rage  shook 
him  from  within.  He  felt  the  horror  of  "possession."  It 
seemed  to  him  that  to  kill  was  the  only  thing  that  would 
relieve  him.  His  rash  excess  of  the  last  week  had  ended 
by  confining  him  to  his  bed  again.  He  lay  there  after 


152  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

Sophy  had  left  him,  dozing  fitfully,  waking  with  dreadful 
starts  from  the  unspeakable  dreams  that  had  begun  to 
visit  him  of  late,  by  night  and  day.  He,  too,  had  read 
De  Quincey.  He  remembered  how  the  wandering  Malay 
had  haunted  "The  Opium-Eater's"  sweating  dreams.  Did 
the  dark  drug  always  send  such  visions?  For  now  he, 
Cecil,  was  hunted  down  through  the  dark  alleys  of  sleep 
by  horrible  deformed  Chinamen,  wrho  squatted  on  their 
hams,  mocking  him,  bedizened  in  cruel,  violent  colours  that 
filled  him  with  unreasoning  fear ;  mopping  and  mowing  at 
him  with  chattered  words  that  iced  his  blood.  And  one 
dream  that  came  again  and  again  racked  him  with  the  ex 
tremity  of  loathing:  a  violin  would  begin  playing  some 
where — harsh,  Chinese  music ;  behind  a  stiff,  embroidered 
curtain  it  would  begin  to  play.  Then,  from  under  the  cur 
tain  would  peep  a  foot,  the  deformed  "lily  foot"  of  a 
Chinese  woman ;  then  there  would  crawl  out  from  under 
the  curtain  the  violin  itself,  like  the  brown  carapace  of 
some  misshapen  turtle,  and  its  head  was  a  woman's — a 
little  Chinese  harlot's,  with  gilded  underlip — and  in  place 
of  the  turtle's  flippers,  the  "lily-feet"  and  long-nailed, 
tiny  hands  would  come  scratching  towards  him.  Then, 
like  a  luxurious  cat,  the  little  turtle-violin  would  begin  rub 
bing  itself  against  his  feet,  that  were  glued  fast  with  ter 
ror,  till  the  strings  underneath  its  belly  would  give  forth 
again  that  sinister  Chinese  music. 

Or,  in  another  dream  even  worse — conscious  that  he  was 
dreaming — he  would  begin  to  sink  with  his  bed,  slowly, 
very  slowly,  through  the  floor  of  his  room;  down  through 
the  library  which  was  underneath ;  down,  down,  into  the 
dark  cellars  where  were  stored  the  liquors  that  he  craved ; 
down,  ever  down,  into  the  wormy  earth,  among  dead  men's 
bones  and  all  uncleanness  he  would  sink  slowly,  so  slowly. 
And  his  hair  oozy  with  terror,  his  flesh  glazed  as  with  a 
coating  of  thin  ice,  he  would  think:  "This  is  what  is  called 
'sinking  to  the  lowest  depth' — I  am  sinking  to  hell  ...  to 
the  sewers  of  hell.  ..." 

Then  began  a  reckless  orgy  of  self-indulgence.  These 
horrors  must  come  because  he  was  not  getting  enough  of 
the  drug — could  not  take  it  hypodermically.  He  must  alter 
this.  He  must  take  larger,  ever  larger  doses.  And  he 
must  have  stimulant.  Damn  them!  They  locked  his  own 
father's  wine-cellar  against  him,  did  they  ?  Well,  he  would 


153 

outwit  them.      Where  there  was  a  will  there  was  a  way. 
Good  old  adage !     Made  for  morphinomaniacs ! 

He  came  to  these  conclusions  on  the  Sunday  that  Sophy 
received  Anne  Harding 's  telegram. 


XXVII 

ON  Wednesday  evening,  about  eleven  o'clock,  Gaynor 
knocked  at  the  door  of  Sophy's  bedroom.  She  was  sitting 
before  the  fire,  her  dressing-gown  over  her  nightgown, 
ready  for  any  emergency.  She  sent  Tilda  to  bed  early 
these  terrible  days — living,  as  she  did,  in  constant  terror 
lest  the  servants  should  witness  some  odious  scandal. 

She  opened  the  door  herself,  not  knowing  who  it  might 
be.  The  little  man  was  very  pale,  he  had  the  appearance 
attributed  to  those  who  have  "just  seen  a  ghost."  In  his 
hand  he  held  a  white  glass  quart  bottle.  He  looked  at 
Sophy  without  speaking. 

"What  is  it?  What  is  it?"  she  urged.  Her  eyes  were 
fixed  on  that  big,  empty  bottle.  Why  should  Gaynor  bring 
an  empty  bottle  to  her  room  at  eleven  o'clock  at  night? 
Why  was  he  so  frightened? 

"Mrs.  Chesney  ..."  said  the  valet.  "Pardon  me, 
but  you  must  know.  I've  thought  different.  Now  it's 
plain.  This  bottle  was  more  than  half  full  at  five  this 
afternoon.  Now,  you  see,  madam;  you  see  for  your 
self  .  .  ." 

Sophy  stared  bewildered. 

"I  don't  understand,"  she  said,  full  of  vague  terror 
herself  now.  "What  was  in  the  bottle?  Why  is  it 
empty?" 

' '  Spirit,  madam ;  ninety-five-proof  spirit — for  the  little 
spirit  lamp  I  use  for  Mr.  Chesney,  madam.  It  was  two- 
thirds  full  six  hours  ago.  Oh,  don't  you  see,  madam?  And 
now  the  master's  door  is  locked.  He  won't  answer — I've 
knocked  and  knocked.  He  laughed  once — so  he's  not  un 
conscious,  madam." 

Sophy  stood  staring. 

"Do  you  mean  .  .  .?"  she  whispered  finally.  "You 
don't  mean  that  he  .  .  .  he  .  .  .?" 

' '  Oh,  madam  !     What  else  can  I  think  ?      It  began  yes- 


154  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

terday.  I  thought  one  of  the  maids  had  upset  it  and  didn  't 
like  to  say — they  never  do,  madam.  Full  a  pint  went  yes 
terday.  But  as  there  was  enough  left  in  the  bottle  for 
the  making  of  his  morning  coffee,  I  didn't  trouble  to  fill  it 
till  tli is  afternoon.  But  now  .  .  .  And  he  was  so  strange 
an  hour  ago.  So  wild-like  .  .  .  different  ..." 

"I  didn't  know  ..."  murmured  Sophy,  her  eyes  fixed 
in  horror  on  the  empty  bottle.  "I  didn't  know  that  .  .  . 
that  ...  I  thought  it  was  poisonous  ..." 

"Oh,  no,  madam!  It's  methylated  spirits  you're  think 
ing  of.  This  is  ninety-five-proof — pure  alcohol.  It's  done, 
madam.  I've  heard  of  it's  being  done.  But  I  never 
thought  ..." 

lie  too  stopped,  overcome. 

Sophy  looked  at  the  little  servant  helplessly. 

"I  don't  know  what  to  do,  Gaynor, "  she  said,  in  the 
voice  of  a  child.  "What  can  I  do?" 

"AYould  you  come  speak  to  him,  madam,  through  the 
door?  lie  might  answer  you." 

"Yes,  I'll  come,"  she  said.  She  looked  at  him  out  of 
appalled  eyes.  "But  don't  leave  me,  Gaynor,  will  you? 
Come,  too." 

"No,  no,  madam.     I'll  not  leave  you.     Never  fear." 

Together  the  little  grey  figure  and  the  tall  white  one 
stole  down  the  corridor  to  Chesney's  door. 

Sophy  put  her  mouth  close  to  the  crevice  of  the  door. 
Her  heart  was  beating  so  that  it  shook  her  lips  against  the 
wood. 

' '  Cecil— Cecil ! "  she  called  softly.  "  It 's  I— Sophy .  I  'm 
so  afraid  you  're  ill.  Won 't  you  speak  to  me,  Cecil  ? ' ' 

There  was  no  answer.  She  tried  again  and  again.  Pres 
ently  she  heard  that  low,  ominous  laugh. 

"It's  no  use,"  she  whispered,  drawing  away  in  terror. 
"Have  you  told  Doctor  Bellamy?" 

"No,  madam.     No  one  but  you.     I  didn't  like  to." 

"I  know,  Gaynor,"  she  said,  still  whispering.  "It's 
hard  to  have  to  tell — but  I  'm  afraid  we  ought. " 

"Mightn't  we  wait?  Just  a  bit  longer,  madam?  I'll 
keep  watch  ..." 

Sophy  hesitated. 

"Well,  then,"  she  said  reluctantly,  "I  shall  not  sleep, 
either." 

She  thought  a  moment ;  then  she  said : 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  155 

"Bring  me  a  few  of  Mr.  Chesney's  cigarettes,  Gaynor. 
Mine  have  given  out.  Bring  me  some  of  his  cigarette- 
papers,  too.  I'll  roll  them  smaller,  as  he's  been  doing 
lately." 

"Very  well,  madam.  But  there's  very  few  in  the  last- 
opened  box.  Mr.  Chesney  won't  have  me  open  a  new  box, 
madam.  He's  very  particular.  He  don't  like  me  to  med 
dle  with  his  cigarettes.  If  you'll  just  be  so  kind,  madam, 
as  to  tell  him  it  was  your  orders.  I  fear  to  anger  him  as 
he  is  now." 

"Certainly  I  will,  Gaynor.  Gladly.  Bring  a  fresh  box 
here — I  will  open  it  myself  and  tell  him  to-morrow  that  it 
was  I  who  did  it." 

But  when  the  valet  brought  her  the  box  of  cigarettes, 
and  she  had  taken  out  a  handful,  all  desire  to  smoke  left 
her.  She  had  not  the  habit — only  did  so  now  and  then, 
when  she  felt  very  nervous  and  restless,  as  to-night.  Now 
as  she  looked  at  these  huge  cigarettes  so  intimately  asso 
ciated  with  her  husband,  she  felt  averse  from  touching 
them.  She  shut  them  away  in  a  drawer  of  her  writing- 
table,  and  began  to  walk  to  and  fro,  her  arms  pressed 
tightly  against  her  heart  which  was  so  full  of  fear  and 
apprehension,  which  beat  so  heavily  as  though  tired  with 
its  ceaseless  task  of  life. 

She  went  to  a  window  and,  drawing  the  curtains  aside, 
looked  out.  The  night  was  soft  and  black,  with  hurrying 
clouds.  Two  greenish  stars  gleamed  at  her  from  a  rent  in 
the  ragged  drapery  of  vapour.  They  looked  like  the  phos 
phorescent  eyes  of  some  wild  creature  glaring  from  the 
jungle  of  the  night.  She  shrank,  letting  the  curtain  fall 
into  place  again. 

Again  some  one  knocked.  She  went  quickly,  her  heart 
pounding.  It  was  only  Gaynor.  His  face  wore  a  relieved 
look. 

"Mr.  Chesney  has  opened  his  door.  He's  reading.  He 
seems  quiet.  I  hope  that  you  '11  try  to  sleep  now,  madam. ' ' 

' '  But  you  will  call  me  if  you  need  me,  Gaynor. ' ' 

"Yes,  madam — surely." 

"Very  well.  I  will  lie  down,  then.  I  am  very  tired. 
But  I  doubt  if  I  can  sleep.  Don't  hesitate  to  call  me." 

"No.     I  will  not,  madam." 

Sophy  got  into  bed,  and  turned  out  her  lamp.  But  she 
thought  that  she  would  never  go  to  sleep.  She  thought  of 


156  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

herself  as  a  girl.  How  confident  of  life — her  life — she  had 
been  then !  The  world  was  very  surely  her  oyster.  Within 
lay  that  pearl  of  great  price — her  happiness.  How  simple 
it  had  seemed!  Where  was  that  confident  girl  now — the 
girl  who  had  been  so  sweetly  "spoiled"  by  father  and 
mother  and  sister,  and  adoring  friends?  That  girl  had 
gone  the  way  of  all  the  other  Sophies.  The  baby-Sophy, 
and  Sophy  the  four-year-old  imp,  and  the  grave,  inde 
pendently  religious  Sophy  of  nine.  Was  she  religious  now  ? 
Why  couldn't  she  pray,  then — really  pray?  Was  that  con 
stant,  dull  cry  of  her  heart,  "God  help  .  .  .  help  .  .  . 
help  ! ' ' — was  that  a  prayer  ?  Yes,  that  must  be  prayer. 

A  dulness  came  over  her.     Her  mind  refused  to  reason. 

"At  least  I  am  really  living,"  she  thought.  "This  pain 

is  living Oh,  mould  me!"  her  heart  called  suddenly 

into  the  Void.  "Mould  me  into  something  higher!" 

She  seemed  aware,  in  the  pause  of  thought  that  fol 
lowed,  of  an  immense  Presence.  Personal,  yet  Impersonal 
— one  with  her — with  some  part  of  her.  She  seemed  cher 
ished  and  approved.  A  little  after,  she  fell  asleep. 

She  knew  that  she  had  been  asleep,  for  she  waked  to  that 
sense  of  interval,  of  break  in  one 's  continuous  life  that  fol 
lows  on  profound  sleep.  At  the  same  time  there  crept  over 
her  a  chill  sense  of  uneasiness — the  sense  of  a  presence.  It 
was  not  like  that  vast,  lulling  sense  that  had  come  to  her 
just  before  she  fell  asleep.  No — this  was  different,  sinister. 
Something — some  one — was  in  that  dark  room — with  her — 
near  her — very  near  her.  She  held  her  breath.  A  wild 
leap  of  fear,  like  a  pang  of  bodily  anguish,  blazed  suddenly 
through  her.  She  was  sure — oh,  horribly,  dissolvingly 
sure ! — that  in  the  thick  darkness  a  face — a  face  that  could 
not  see  her — was  looking  down  on  her.  For  a  second  she 
lost  consciousness.  Then  again  came  the  blaze  of  fear,  like 
a  bolt  through  her  paralysed  body.  She  must  move — she 
must  know — or  die  of  terror.  She  put  up  her  hand.  It 
touched  a  face — the  dry  teeth  in  an  open  mouth — a  grin 
ning  mouth.  She  felt  sure  afterwards  that,  had  she 
screamed  then,  she  would  have  lost  her  reason  with  her 
self-control.  She  fought  with  herself  as  with  giants.  One 
part  of  her  said :  "Shriek  and  die."  The  other  part  said : 
' '  Don 't  give  way — don 't  give  way ! ' ' 

"Cecil  .  .  .?"  she  managed  to  utter. 

"Ila!"  said  a  voice  that  laughed  low.      "Plucky  lass! 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  157 

Just  thought  I'd  give  you  a  taste  of  what  it  is  to  be  spied 
on.  So-long.  Sweet  dreams." 

She  heard  him  fumbling  his  way  out.  The  door  clicked. 
For  another  minute  the  terror  held  her.  Then  she  struck 
a  match — two,  three — she  could  not  hold  them  steady 
enough  to  aid  the  flame.  The  floor  was  strewn  with 
matches.  At  last — her  candle  shone  out.  She  leaped  from 
bed.  Her  knees  gave  way.  She  fell  to  them  where  she 
stood.  A  second — then  up  again.  She  reached  the  door — 
ran,  ran — ran.  .  .  . 

She  was  clinging  to  Gaynor — holding  him  fast  in  both 
arms — sobbing — biting  off  laughter  between  her  teeth — 
sobbing  again. 

' '  Oh,  Gaynor,  hold  me !  Don 't  let  him  get  me !  Run  to 
Master  Bobby !  Run !  Take  me  with  you — I  can 't  move  of 

myself Then  leave  me !  Go  alone !  Go  to  Master 

Bobby!" 

But  when,  blindly  obedient,  he  turned  and  ran  towards 
the  nursery,  she  was  after  him,  fleet  and  strong  as  Ata- 
lanta.  The  golden  apple  was  her  son — her  son !  .  .  . 


XXVIII 

BUT  all  was  quiet  in  the  nursery.  The  night-light  burned 
near  Miller's  bed.  The  embers  made  a  soft  jewelry  of  the 
iron  grate.  Under  the  pink  blanket  could  be  seen  the  little 
mound  of  Bobby's  curled  body,  and  the  glow  of  his  red 
locks  on  the  pillow.  Sophy  went  and  sank  down  beside  his 
crib,  stretching  out  her  arms  above  him,  her  face  hidden 
against  the  blanket. 

' '  What 's  a-matter  ?  What 's  a-matter  ? ' '  asked  the  nurse, 
a  blue-eyed  Nottinghamshire  woman,  struggling  to  her  el 
bow  and  staring,  frightened,  at  the  valet.  "What  be  you 
doin'  here?" 

Fright  had  startled  her  into  her  childhood's  tongue. 
She  was  as  correct  in  her  ordinary  speech  as  Gaynor  him 
self. 

' '  Keep  quiet, ' '  he  whispered.  ' '  The  mistress  thought  she 
heard  the  child  scream.  It  gave  her  a  turn.  Be  quiet. 
I'll  fetch  some  brandy." 

"I  s'll  be  quiet  enow.    You  need  na'  fret  for  that,"  said 


158  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

the  woman  huffily.  She  resented  being  hectored  in  the 
middle  of  the  night  by  that  "wizzening  little  stick  of  a 
man."  She  got  up  grumpily  and  shuffled  on  her  brown 
woolen  wrapper.  Looking  like  a  sulky  but  dutiful  she- 
bear  in  the  clumsy  garment,  she  went  over  beside  her  mis 
tress.  She  had  recovered  her  power  of  "proper"  speech. 

"  I  'm  sorry  you  got  a  fright,  madam.  Won 't  you  sit  in 
a  chair?" 

Sophy  did  not  move  or  answer.  She  could  not.  She 
felt  as  though  some  violent  natural  force  had  flung  her 
against  the  little  crib.  She  clung  to  it  dizzily.  A  great 
void  seemed  waiting  for  her,  should  she  loose  her  hold  on  it 
an  instant. 

Gay  nor  came  back  with  the  brandy.  She  turned  her 
head  when  he  urged  her,  respectfully  insistent,  and  supped 
the  liquor  from  the  glass  that  Miller  held  to  her  lips,  like 
a  child.  It  revived  her.  She  gave  a  long  sigh,  putting  up 
her  hand  before  her  eyes,  her  elbow  on  the  bed.  She 
found  strength  to  rise  in  a  few  moments.  There  were 
things  that  she  and  Gaynor  must  see  to  at  once.  She  looked 
about  the  room.  Thank  God,  the  nursery  windows  were 
barred!  She  had  a  dread  feeling  that  Cecil  might  be  able 
to  crawl  over  the  sheer  face  of  a  building,  like  "Dracula. " 
She  turned  to  Miller,  whose  little  blue  eyes  still  stared 
inquisitively.  There  was  something  "beyond"  in  all  this, 
the  nurse  was  telling  herself  shrewdly. 

"I  wish  you  to  lock  the  nursery  doors  on  the  inside  to 
night,  Miller,"  Sophy  said,  looking  frankly  at  her.  "Mr. 
Chesney  is  delirious.  I  'm  afraid  he  might  startle  you.  He 
is  very  restless." 

Miller  paled.  Privately,  she  had  decided,  long  ago,  that 
the  master  was  "a  bit  off  his  head";  but  she  had  orders 
never  to  lock  the  nursery  doors,  for  fear  of  fire. 

"I  will  do,  madam,"  she  said  with  energy. 

Sophy  went  to  her  own  room  again,  bidding  Gaynor  come 
with  her.  She  shut  the  door  and  told  him  what  had  hap 
pened. 

"Go  and  see  if  he  is  in  his  room  now,  Gaynor.  I  will 
wait  here." 

Gaynor  returned  saying  that  his  master  had  again  locked 
his  door. 

"Is  he  in  the  room,  Gaynor?" 

The  man  looked  startled. 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  159 

"I  suppose  so,  madam.  He  would  not  answer  when  I 
knocked ;  but  why  else  would  he  lock  the  door  ? ' ' 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Sophy.  "But  I  feel  very  uneasy. 
Is  there  any  way  that  he  could  get  out  except  by  the 
door?" 

' '  There 's  a  ledge  of  the  East  Wing  roof  that  passes  under 
one  of  his  windows,  madam.  But  why  should  he  want  to 
get  out  on  the  roof  ? ' ' 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Sophy  again.  "Perhaps  it  is  only 
that  I  'm  nervous.  But  we  must  tell  Doctor  Bellamy,  Gay- 
nor.  You  must  go  to  his  room  and  wake  him. ' ' 

Bellamy  hurried  on  his  clothes  when  the  valet  had  ex 
plained  to  him.  He  went  to  Sophy's  room,  where  Gaynor 
said  that  she  was  awaiting  him.  She,  too,  had  dressed 
herself  fully,  in  serge  skirt  and  jacket.  Somehow  she  felt 
that  she  must  be  dressed  to  meet  emergencies — to  go  out 
into  the  night,  if  necessary.  She  looked  oddly  girlish  in 
the  plain,  dark-blue  costume.  She  had  wound  her  long 
braid  round  and  round  her  head  to  avoid  its  weight  at  the 
nape  of  her  neck.  This  added  to  the  girlish,  scared  look 
of  her  pale  face. 

"This  is  terrible,  Mrs.  Chesney,"  said  Bellamy.  "I  feel 
that  your  life  has  been  in  danger.  He  must  be  a  madman 
for  the  time  being,  with  that  crude  spirit  in  him — nearly  a 
quart  within  six  hours,  Gaynor  tells  me.  I  think  Lady 
Wychcote  and  his  brother  should  be  put  on  their  guard." 

"Yes.    I  wanted  to  ask  you  about  that." 

And  Sophy  told  him  about  the  access  from  Chesney 's 
window  to  the  roof. 

"Come — they  had  better  be  roused  at  once!"  said  Bell 
amy,  turning  pale.  Pale  faces  were  the  custom  at  Dyne- 
hurst  in  those  days. 

Sophy  went  with  the  doctor  along  the  corridor  leading 
to  Lady  "Wychcote 's  room.  Gerald  slept  on  the  other  side 
of  the  house.  They  went  cautiously,  being  careful  not  to 
speak  or  make  any  sound  that  might  rouse  the  servants  on 
the  floor  above.  Gaynor  was  left  on  guard  by  his  master's 
door. 

But  as  they  trod,  noiseless  and  silent,  with  cautious  ap 
prehension,  the  sleeping  house  was  roused  by  a  long-drawn, 
fearful  shriek — then  another.  The  silence  that  followed 
seemed  to  echo  with  it  like  the  air  with  a  clap  of  thunder. 

Transfixed   for  an  instant,   the   next  both   Sophy   and 


160 

Bellamy  were  running  wildly  towards  Lady  Wychcote 's 
room.  The  scream  had  come  from  it. 

They  tore  open  the  door  without  ceremony.  Lady 
Wychcote  was  sitting  up  in  bed,  staring  at  the  open  win 
dow  as  though  Death  had  appeared  to  her  in  its  embrasure. 
Her  eyes  seemed  to  have  set  in  her  head. 

Bellamy  applied  restoratives.  She  gasped,  came  to  her 
self.  She  grew  rigid  with  self-control  under  his  hands,  as 
though  made  of  fine  steel.  Her  thin  lips  snapped  to — then 
parted. 

"A  nightmare,"  she  said  curtly.  "I  thought  I  saw 
Cecil's  face."  Shudders  took  her  in  spite  of  her  grim 
will.  She  put  her  hand  over  her  eyes.  "Horrible!"  she 
muttered.  ' '  'Twas  horrible !  I  saw  him  as  I  see  you — at 
the  window  .  .  .  his  face,  yet  not  his  face  ...  a  mur 
derer  's  .  .  .  swollen  ..."  Then  she  added,  curt  again : 
"You  can  leave  me  now.  I  have  these  disgusting  dreams 
occasionally.  I  am  quite  over  it." 

Then  Bellamy  explained  matters  to  her.  There  w.as  no 
doubt  that  she  had  really  seen  Cecil's  face  at  her  window. 
She  always  slept  with  curtains  drawn  back,  and  shutters 
wide.  The  light  from  the  shaded  lamp  which  she  kept 
burning  all  night  on  her  writing-table  would  have  just 
caught  his  face,  had  he  stood  on  the  stone  ledge  beneath 
her  window  and  looked  in.  This  is  what  he  must  have  done. 

When  she  had  taken  in  the  import  of  Bellamy's  words, 
Lady  Wychcote  said  that  she,  too,  would  rise  and  dress. 
They  left  her  and  went  out  to  find  the  stairs  and  upper 
corridors  rustling  with  frightened  servants.  Jepson,  the 
butler,  was  talking  in  low  tones  with  Gaynor.  He  came 
forward  as  he  saw  Sophy  and  the  doctor. 

"I  tried  to  make  them  keep  their  rooms,  madam,"  he 
said  to  Sophy.  "But  there's  no  doing  with  them  when 
they  're  frightened. ' ' 

Bellamy  explained  that  Lady  Wychcote  had  screamed 
from  nightmare,  but,  as  Mr.  Chesney  had  been  taken  seri 
ously  ill  and  was  delirious,  she  had  thought  it  better  to 
get  up. 

"Just  send  the  maids  to  bed,  and  come  back,  Jepson — we 
may  need  you,"  he  concluded. 

He  was  nonplussed  as  to  the  next  move  to  make.  Should 
he  have  the  door  of  Chesney 's  bedroom  forced,  the  man, 
frenzied  with  alcohol  and  drugs,  might  commit  some  hid- 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  161 

eous  act  of  folly — either  against  himself  or  against  others. 
He  might  just  be  climbing  in  again  at  his  window  as  the 
door  was  burst  open,  and  throw  himself  backwards  in  his 
rage  onto  the  flagged  cou^t  below. 

Lady  Wychcote  and  Gerald  finally  joined  them  as  they 
stood  perplexed,  looking  at  that  locked  door,  listening  for 
some  sound  from  behind  it  that  would  tell  them  that  Cecil 
had  come  back  safe  from  his  perilous  clambering  over  the 
dark  roof.  It  was  agreed  that  all  should  await  events, 
together,  in  Sophy's  bedroom.  It  was  the  nearest  room  to 
Cecil's,  and  by  leaving  the  door  open  they  could  still  see 
his  door,  and  Gaynor  sitting  before  it. 

The  night  dragged  on  interminably — one  of  those  grisly 
nights,  when  not  only  illness  but  peril  and  fear  and  mad 
ness  squat  on  the  hearthstone. 

About  five  o'clock,  they  saw  Gaynor  start  and  rise,  lis 
tening.  They  all  rose.  Bellamy  went  towards  the  door. 
Gaynor  turned  and  came  to  meet  him. 

"He's  back,  sir,"  the  man  whispered.  "He's  moving 
round  heavy-like.  Do  you  think  it  may  have  worn  off, 
sir?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Bellamy. 

He,  too,  went  and  listened.  Suddenly  harsh,  snoring 
breaths — slow,  regular — fell  on  his  ear.  He  straightened, 
giving  a  long  sigh  of  relief. 

"What  is  it,  sir?"  whispered  the  valet  eagerly. 

' '  He 's  asleep,  Gaynor.  lie  '11  sleep  for  hours  now.  You  'd 
better  get  some  rest." 

He  went  back  to  the  others. 

"It's  over  for  the  present,"  he  explained.  "You  need 
have  no  more  anxiety  for  the  next  seven  or  eight  hours — 
maybe  more.  By  what  train  do  you  expect  Nurse  Harding, 
Mrs.  Chesney?" 

"I  had  a  letter.  She  will  come  early  to-morrow  morn 
ing — I  mean  this  morning, ' '  Sophy  corrected  herself,  look 
ing  at  the  bone-white  dawn  that  snowed  in  streaks  through 
the  heavy  somnolence  of  the  wrapt  trees.  Gerald  had 
opened  the  shutters  fully  an  hour  ago,  looking  for  the  day 
break. 

"Good!"  said  Bellamy.  He  glanced  at  the  worn  faces 
about  him.  "Now  I  am  going  to  take  a  doctor's  privilege 
and  prescribe,"  he  added,  trying  to  assume  a  lighter  tone. 
"I  advise  your  ladyship,  and  every  one,  to  come  down  to 


162  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

the  dining-room  and  have  coffee  and  something  more  solid. 
A  night  like  this  is  terribly  exhausting.  We  shall  need  all 
our  strength  to  meet  the  next  twenty-four  hours." 


XXIX 

ANNE  HARDING  arrived  at  ten  o'clock.  Bellamy  asked 
Sophy  to  explain  the  situation  to  the  nurse  while  she 
changed  into  her  uniform.  There  was  no  time  to  lose. 
He  would  see  her  himself  as  soon  as  she  had  dressed. 

Bellamy  had  wanted  a  locksmith  sent  for  to  pick  the 
lock  of  Chesney's  door  while  he  slept,  but  Lady  "Wychcote 
would  not  have  this.  She  was  determined  that  things 
should  wait  as  they  were  for  Nurse  Harding 's  arrival. 

' '  She  may  want  to  make  him  open  the  door  himself — for 
the  moral  effect  of  it,"  she  said,  with  real  acumen. 

' '  Awfully  keen  old  lady  she  is,  my  word ! ' '  Anne  had 
exclaimed,  when  Sophy  told  her  this.  "Just  what  I  do 
want!" 

"But,  Nurse,  do  you  think  he  wrill  open  that  door  for 
any  one?"  Sophy  had  asked,  wondering. 

' '  I  know  how  to  make  him — never  you  fear, ' '  Anne  had 
replied  crisply.  "We'll  have  to  wait  a  bit — for  him  to 
sober  up,  you  know, ' '  she  added,  with  her  usual  bluntness. 

She  then  went  for  her  interview  with  Bellamy.  It  as 
tounded  and  chagrined  her  to  find  that  Chesney  had  pro 
cured  morphine  and  cocaine,  for  she  was  convinced  that 
he  had  been  in  possession  of  it  all  the  while.  She  felt  hu 
miliated,  in  her  capacity  of  little  Know- All,  that  she  had 
been  ignorant  of  this  fact.  For  the  present,  however,  she 
contented  herself  with  seeing  that  all  the  alcohol  in  the 
house  was  locked  safely  away.  Her  little  brown  mouth 
looked  very  grim  as  she  sat  near  the  bedroom  door,  waiting 
for  Chesney  to  wake  from  his  stupefied  slumber. 

He  did  not  rouse  till  nearly  four  o'clock.  Then  she 
heard  short,  impatient  moans,  given  under  his  breath,  as  it 
were.  The  bed  creaked  now  and  again  with  his  feverish 
tossings.  Anne  lifted  an  alert  head.  She  half  smiled, 
queerly ;  then  turned  to  Gaynor.  The  two  had  sat  side  by 
side  for  hours  now — Anne  crocheting,  the  valet  looking 
down  at  his  hands  or  straight  at  the  wall  opposite. 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  163 

"Go  get  a  small  glass  of  brandy,  please,"  she  said,  put 
ting  her  crochet- work  into  her  pocket. 

The  valet  looked  so  startled  that  she  nodded  to  him  re 
assuringly. 

"That's  all  right,"  she  said.  "Doctor  Bellamy  knows. 
You  trust  to  me." 

"I  do,  -miss,"  he  said  meekly,  and  went  to  fetch  the 
brandy. 

When  he  brought  it,  Anne  took  the  glass  in  her  hand, 
and,  rising,  rapped  sharply  on  Chesney 's  door. 

"It's  me,  sir — Nurse  Harding,"  she  said,  in  her  most 
matter-of-fact  voice.  "You'll  let  me  in,  won't  you?" 

Perfect  silence.  Even  the  restless  tossing  stopped.  Gay- 
nor  looked  at  her  in  deep  discouragement.  She  only  smiled 
again,  bobbing  her  black  curls  at  him  with  the  energy  of 
her  consoling  nod.  "That's  all  right,  my  good  man,"  the 
nod  said.  "  I  'm  just  taking  my  own  time  about  it. ' ' 

His  puckered  face  smoothed  out  somewhat. 

"See  here,  sir,"  called  Anne,  rapping  on  the  door  again. 
"You  know  I've  always  played  fair  and  square  with  you. 
I  just  want  to  tell  you  that  I  know  you'll  be  needing  brandy 
to-day,  and  I  have  it  here  for  you — a  glass  of  it — in  my 
hand.  If  you'll  only  open  the  door  for  me,  I'll  give  it  you 
right  away." 

She  heard  the  bed  creak.     She  called  again : 

"It's  the  physic  that  you  need,  Mr.  Chesney,  and  you 
know  it  as  well  as  I  do.  You  won't  get  it  any  other  way. 
Come — be  a  good  sport  and  let  me  in ! " 

There  was  another  silence;  then  she  heard  his  slow, 
heavy,  dragging  tread  along  the  floor.  The  door  shook 
suddenly.  He  had  evidently  half  fallen  against  it  for  sup 
port.  Then  the  key  turned.  Anne  pushed  the  door  open 
and  went  in,  closing  it  behind  her  in  Gaynor's  dum- 
founded  face.  The  valet  felt  a  faint  revival  of  his  child 
hood's  belief  in  witches  as  the  little  black-maned  figure  dis 
appeared  behind  that  dread  door  and  closed  and  locked  it. 
Lion-tamers  were  but  feeble  folk  compared  with  her.  He 
sat  down  on  the  hall-chair  nearest,  and  wiped  his  forehead. 

Anne  told  Dr.  Bellamy  afterwards  that  Chesney  that 
day  was  the  "grisliest  sight  she  had  ever  looked  on  in 
twelve  years  of  mighty  varied  nursing." 

"When  she  entered  he  was  returning  laboriously  to  his 
bed.  He  swayed  as  he  went,  and  the  little  nurse  gave  him 


164  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

her  thin  arm  and  shoulder  for  support.  The  two  went 
reeling  slowly  across  the  room,  Anne  with  the  glass  of 
brandy  held  at  arm's  length  to  keep  from  slopping  it. 

The  great  hulk  fell  helplessly  upon  the  bed,  and  she 
dragged  the  bedclothes  over  him  with  her  free  hand.  As 
she  looked  at  him,  she  thought  that  this  might  be  the  end 
of  him — his  unshaven  face  was  so  congested  with  alcohol 
and  morphia.  There  was  a  yellow-white  ring  around  his 
nostrils  and  the  edge  of  his  moustache. 

She  supported  his  head  and  fed  him  the  raw  spirit  as  a 
woman  feeds  milk  to  a  baby  out  of  a  feeding-mug.  lie 
drank  languidly  at  first ;  then  greedily. 

She  left  him  lying,  and  set  about  to  tidy  the  room. 
Thrusting  her  curly  head  from  the  door,  she  sent  Gaynor 
for  warm  water,  fresh  bed-linen,  and  pyjamas.  When  she 
dressed  him  and  made  up  the  bed,  she  sat  down  beside  him 
with  businesslike  fingers  on  his  pulse,  and  her  eyes  on  the 
bracelet-watch. 

She  then  fed  him  half  a  glass  of  hot  milk  as  she  had  fed 
him  the  brandy,  and  waited  patiently.  In  ten  minutes  he 
was  asleep  again. 

When  Lady  Wychcote  heard  that  her  son  had  admitted 
Nurse  Harding  to  his  room  and  wTas  sleeping  again  after 
taking  some  nourishment,  she  felt  immensely  encouraged 
and  relieved.  Anne  left  her  this  happy  illusion,  but  with 
Sophy  she  was  perfectly  frank. 

"lie's  got  what  we  nurses  sometimes  call  a  'wet  brain,' 
Mrs.  Chesney.  That  means  delirium  tremens  to  a  greater 
or  less  degree.  He  must  have  been  sopping  up  that  spirit 
like  a  sponge,  long  before  Gaynor  suspected  him.  I  fancy 
we  '11  have  lively  times  for  the  next  week  or  so. ' ' 

This  diagnosis  proved  correct.  For  three  nights  and 
days  Nurse  Harding  scarcely  slept,  though  another  nurse 
was  wired  for,  to  be  under  her  orders. 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  fourth  day,  when  Chesney  was 
sleeping  under  the  influence  of  a  moderate  dose  of  morphia, 
Anne  left  Nurse  Hawkins  in  charge,  and  went  to  Sophy's 
room.  Her  little  face  looked  bleached  rather  than  pale. 
Her  skin  was  so  swarthy  that  it  could  never  reach  actual 
pallor.  It  looked  to-day  like  an  autumn  leaf  that  has  been 
bleached  by  the  following  season's  rains  and  suns.  In  an 
swer  to  Sophy's  exclamation  of  sympathy,  she  sank  down 
upon  a  chair,  saying : 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  165 

"Yes,  I  am  rather  done,  Mrs.  Chesney — just  for  the  mo 
ment,  you  know.  I'm  going  to  turn  in  for  a  four  hours' 
sleep  now.  That  will  set  me  up  again.  But  somehow  I 
can't  rest  well,  for  thinking  of  where  that  extra  morphia 
can  be  hidden.  I  feel  such  a  fool  about  it,  Mrs.  Chesney. 
It's  rny  duty  to  find  it.  I  feel  a  regular  amateur — a  duf 
fer " 

"Oh,  dear  Nurse  Harding!  How  can  you  feel  so?" 
asked  Sophy  warmly.  ' '  It  would  baffle  any  one — any  one ! ' ' 

Anne  took  her  peaked  little  face  between  her  brown 
fists,  resting  her  elbows  on  her  knees,  and  shaking  her 
head  disconsolately. 

"I've  been  called  'Miss  Sherlock  Holmes'  in  my  day,'* 
she  admitted  ruefully.  ' '  But  I  rather  think  my  day 's  gone 
by.  May  I  sit  with  you  and  puzzle  over  it  a  bit,  before 
going  for  my  sleep  ? ' ' 

Sophy  made  her  warmly  welcome.  She  even  urged  the 
little  thing  to  lie  down  on  her  sofa  and  rest,  at  least  while 
she  cogitated.  But  Anne  refused  with  resolution. 

' '  No, ' '  she  said.  ' '  No ;  thank  you  so  much,  Mrs.  Chesney. 
Just  let  me  sit  here  in  this  armchair.  I  can  think  better 
sitting. ' ' 

She  sat  for  a  minute  or  two,  frowning  down  at  the  car 
pet;  then  suddenly  she  turned  to  Sophy,  with  the  oddest 
little  guilty  smile,  half  embarrassed,  half  determined. 

"I'll  tell  you  what  you  can  do  for  me,  Mrs.  Chesney," 
she  said.  "  I  've  got  a  little  vice  of  my  own,  though  I  make 
it  a  rule  never  to  indulge  it  when  I  'm  on  a  case.  But  now 
— I  do  so  need  to  think  hard — it's  so  important  for  my 
patient  that  I  should.  Could  you,  would  you  be  so  kind  as 
to  give  me  a  cigarette  and  let  me  smoke  it  here?  You  see, 
I  haven't  any  with  me — and  I  daren't  smoke  in  my  room, 
for  fear  of  the  housemaids.  Do  you  think  me  very  imper 
tinent  and  cheeky  for  asking  you  this  favour,  Mrs.  Ches 
ney?" 

' '  Oh,  my  dear  girl ! ' '  cried  Sophy.  ' '  Of  course  you  shall 
have  a  cigarette.  I  have  some  very  nice  ones  of  my 
own  ..."  She  turned  to  get  them;  then  remembered. 

"What  a  pity!"  she  said.  "Mine  are  all  out.  They 
gave  out  some  days  ago,  and  I  forgot  to  order  more. ' ' 

Then  she  brightened. 

"But  I  remember,  now — I  have  some  of  my  husband's 
here.  They  are  very  good,  only  rather  too  large,  I  think. 


166  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

But  I  have  cigarette-papers.  You  can  pull  one  to  pieces, 
and  roll  it  smaller — as  he  does,  you  know." 

Anne  laughed  when  Sophy  opened  the  table  drawer  and 
handed  her  one  of  the  huge  cigarettes. 

"It  is  a  corker,  isn't  it?"  she  said,  but  her  black  eyes 
gleamed.  She  added  whimsically:  "I  don't  think  I'll  thin 
it  down,  though.  Since  I'm  to  have  a  smoke  (and  it's 
awfully  unprofessional  of  me  to  do  it  while  I'm  on  a  case) 
I  might  as  well  have  a  good  one  while  I'm  about  it." 

She  put  the  big  white  roll  of  thin  paper  and  gold-hued 
tobacco  between  her  lips,  and  held  a  match  to  it,  drawing 
her  thin  cheeks  in  with  luxurious  anticipation  of  the  first 
whiff.  But  the  cigarette  drew  badly;  wouldn't  draw  at  all, 
in  fact.  She  took  it  from  her  mouth,  looking  at  it  disap 
pointedly. 

"Here — take  another,"  urged  Sophy,  holding  it  to  her. 
"That  must  have  got  damp  in  some  way.  Try  this  one." 

But  the  second  cigarette  refused  to  draw  also.  Sophy 
forced  a  third  on  her.  That,  too,  was  a  failure. 

"I  see  now  why  he's  taken  to  rolling  them  over,"  said 
Anne:  "This  lot  must  be  badly  rolled.  It's  a  pity  to  have 
wasted  so  many;  but  if  I  may  have  a  cigarette-paper  I'll 
just  unroll  one  of  these  and  do  it  over. ' ' 

Sophy  handed  her  the  little  packet  of  rice-paper,  and 
gave  her  a  lacquer  pen-tray  in  which  to  put  the  loose  to 
bacco.  Anne 's  deft  fingers  made  quick  work  of  one  of  the 
big  rolls.  She  whipped  off  its  white  sheath,  and  began 
shredding  the  packed  tobacco  neatly.  All  at  once  she  gave 
a  cry.  She  sat  staring  down  at  the  tray  as  though  it  had 
turned  into  a  Gorgon's  head. 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Sophy,  startled. 

The  girl  made  a  clutch  at  her,  dragging  her  nearer, 
without  taking  her  eyes  from  the  loose  tobacco  in  the  tray. 

"Look,  Mrs.  Chesney !  Look!"  she  cried,  her  voice  a  low 
tremolo  of  excitement.  She  touched  something  in  the  tray 
with  the  tip  of  her  finger-nail.  It  was  a  little  white  object, 
round,  flat  .  .  .  indeed,  there  were  several  of  them — some 
tangled  among  the  tobacco,  some  having  dropped  clear  on 
the  dark  surface  of  the  lacquer. 

Sophy  stared.    The  truth  didn't  dawn  on  her. 

"Were  they  in  the  cigarette?"  she  asked.  "What  are 
they?" 

Then  Anne,  overwrought  with  sleeplessness  and  excite- 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  167 

ment,  so  far  forgot  herself  that,  setting  the  tray  on  the 
table,  she  seized  the  tall  lady  in  her  arms  and  hugged  her 
wildly. 

"What  are  they?  Morphia!  .  .  .  Morphia!  .  .  .  Mor 
phia!"  she  chanted,  as  she  hugged  Sophy  to  her  in  little 
jerks  that  accompanied  each  cry  of  "Morphia!" 

"Morphia  .  .  .  and  cocaine,  probably,  Mrs.  Chesney! 
Oh,  the  clever  devil !  The  clever,  clever  devil ! ' ' 

This  secreting  of  tablets  of  morphia  and  cocaine  in  the 
big  cigarettes  had  been  the  employment  of  Chesney  during 
those  hours  behind  locked  doors  before  leaving  London. 
With  a  pair  of  very  long,  slender  forceps,  he  had  pulled  out 
part  of  the  tobacco,  dropped  the  tablets  into  the  hollow 
thus  made,  and  repacked  the  tobacco  cunningly  upon  them. 
Hours  and  hours  he  had  spent  thus,  making  tiny  marks  on 
the  cigarettes  which  contained  the  different  drugs,  that  he 
might  know  them  apart.  Certain  cigarettes  he  left  intact. 
He  mixed  these  and  the  doctored  ones  in  the  boxes,  large 
tin  cases  made  for  importation,  which  he  sealed  up  again 
cleverly,  with  a  tiny  strip  of  paper  on  the  same  tone  as  the 
wrapper. 

The  morphinomaniac's  imagination  works  in  spurts. 
First  come  jets  of  cerebral  luminosity ;  then  gaps  of  a  grey 
vagueness.  Cecil's  constructive  fancy  had  not  worked  be 
yond  the  point  of  laying  in  a  large  supply  of  the  drug.  He 
had  not  considered  how  he  would  procure  more  when  it 
should  have  given  out.  He  had  provided  for  several 
months  ahead.  After  that  he  trusted  to  chance  and  cun 
ning. 

When  Sophy  understood — and  understanding  had  come 
in  a  flash,  even  as  she  questioned,  even  before  Anne  Hard- 
ing's  triumphant  cry — she  felt  that  this  was  the  last  straw. 
Something  seemed  to  go  click!  within  her,  as  though  the 
fine  mechanism  of  her  reasoning  mind  had  set  itself  to  an 
other  gauge — would  not,  forever  any  more,  work  to  the  old 
standard.  She  must  forgive — but  she  could  never  forget. 
And  what  is  forgiveness  without  f orgetfulness  ?  The  cold 
body  of  duty,  mummied  by  conscientiousness,  void  of  soul 
or  life.  She  was  done.  He  had  seen  her  misery,  her  an 
guish  of  anxiety,  her  heart-racking  efforts  to  help  him,  and 
day  after  day  he  had  said  to  her,  with  that  faint,  mocking 
smile  that  her  blood  burned  in  remembering: 


168  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

' '  Just  hand  me  a  cigarette,  will  you,  Sophy  ? ' ' 
And  she  had  handed  them  to  him,  had  fetched  and  car 
ried  the  poison  for  him  like  a  well-trained  retriever.  And 
he  had  found  pleasure — amusement — in  thus  making  her 
the  unconscious  instrument  of  her  own  frustration — the  in 
nocent  minister  of  his  vile  vice ! 

That  was  the  most  tragic  moment  of  all  to  her — the  mo 
ment  when  she  gazed  down  at  those  little  dots  of  white  on 
the  lacquer  tray,  and  realised  what  they  were. 


XXX 

THAT  evening  Anne  Harding  had  what  she  called  "a 
downright  talk"  with  Lady  AVychcote.  The  two  "hit  it 
off"  very  well,  considering  all  things.  There  was  a  cer 
tain  hardness  in  the  little  trained  nurse,  as  in  the  haughty 
old  aristocrat,  which  commanded  their  mutual  respect; 
though  Anne's  hardness  was  always  kind,  and  Lady  Wych- 
cote's  nearly  always  unkind.  Still  the  two  able  creatures 
set  a  certain  value  on  each  other,  and  this  wrought  for 
understanding. 

Anne  told  her  ladyship  outright  that  she  would  give  up 
the  case  unless  Dr.  Carfew  or  Sir  Lionel  Playfair  were  put 
in  charge.  Dr.  Bellamy  had  told  her  that  he  would  not 
assume  further  responsibility.  Sophy  had  ranged  herself 
firmly  on  the  side  of  Bellamy  and  Anne.  Gerald  was  with 
her  in  this  decision. 

Lady  Wychcote  looked  rather  grimly  at  the  Lilliputian 
envoy. 

"Very  well,"  she  said.  "But  I  will  not  countenance  an 
enforced  removal  to  one  of  their  asylums." 

"Could  not  your  ladyship  leave  that  to  Doctor  Car- 
few?" 

"No,"  was  her  ladyship's  reply. 

"Perhaps  I  can  bring  him  to  reason,"  Anne  had  said  to 
Sophy  after  this  interview.  "At  any  rate,  I  want  him  to 
hear  plainly,  from  a  man,  what  his  fate  will  be  if  he  goes 
on  with  his  poisons." 

Sophy  said  nothing. 

' '  Poor  soul !  She 's  given  up ! "  thought  Anne.  ' '  Well,  7 
must  tussle  to  the  bitter  end — that's  what  nurses  are  here 
for." 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  169 

As  soon  as  Chesney  was  rational,  she  "had  it  out"  with 
him. 

"Well,  for  God's  sake,  bring  on  your  damned  quack  and 
let  him  have  his  quack-quackery  out!"  was  his  surly  re 
sponse.  ' '  I  suppose  I  'm  of  too  tough  a  fibre  to  be  slain  by 
an  ass's  jawbone.  But  I  warn  you — no  sanatorium  hocus- 
pocus!" 

"Oh,  you  needn't  worry!"  Anne  had  said  crossly. 
"Your  mother's  on  your  side.  She'll  help  you  destroy 
yourself.  Mothers  have  a  sort  of  gift  that  way,  you  know. 
But  if  you  were  my  man — I  'd  clap  you  in  a  safe  place,  no 
matter  what  you  said  or  did!" 

Chesney  gave  her  one  of  his  ugliest  looks. 

"Leave  me  in  peace!"  he  growled.  "I've  said  I'd  see 
your  precious  Carfew.  Now  you're  working  me  up  just 
because  of  your  own  nasty  little  temper.  A  fine  nurse,  you 
are!" 

"Well,  I  can't  beat  you  for  a  patient,"  retorted  Anne, 
with  her  puggy  sniff. 

That  same  night  Bobby  had  a  bad  attack  of  croup. 
Sophy  and  Bellamy  and  Anne — who  had  left  Chesney  un 
ceremoniously  to  the  strange  nurse's  care — fought  until 
daybreak  for  his  life. 

After  it  was  all  over,  and  Bobby  safe,  Bellamy  told 
Sophy  that  the  time  to  keep  his  promise  had  come.  She 
gazed  at  him,  startled — not  recollecting. 

' '  My  promise  to  tell  you  frankly  when  I  thought  the  boy 
needed  a  change  of  climate, ' '  he  reminded  her.  ' '  He  needs 
it  now,  Mrs.  Chesney.  You  both  need  it." 

Sophy  whitened. 

"You  don't  mean  .  .  .?" 

"No,  no!  Nothing  in  the  least  serious.  But,  though 
we've  had  some  fine  days  lately,  the  boy  needs  a  drier  cli 
mate — hotter  sunshine.  The  Italian  Lakes  are  not  at  all 
bad  in  summer,  Mrs.  Chesney,  though  people  stare  at  the 
idea  of  going  to  Italy  in  the  summer.  I  spent  a  delightful 
July  and  August  once  at  Cadenabbia.  Why  not  try  Como? 
Or,  if  you  want  to  be  perfectly  quiet,  the  other  lake — Mag- 
giore.  There 's  a  capital  hotel  at  Baveno.  I  've  been  there, 
too.  Nice  gardens  for  the  boy  to  play  in.  Pleasant  jaunts 
to  the  Barromean  Islands — if  you  care  for  that  sort  of 
thing." 

Sophy  seemed  to  be  only  half  listening  to  him.     She  had 


170  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

a  far-away  look  in  her  eyes.  He  thought  that  she  was 
brooding  over  the  sad  plight  in  which  she  would  have  to 
leave  her  husband  if  she  took  her  boy  to  Italy.  But  Sophy 
was  only  thinking  how  strange  it  was  that  an  English 
physician  was  ordering  to  go  to  the  place  where  Amaldi 
had  been  born.  She  had  thought  she  might  never  see  him 
again.  Now  she  might  see  him  very  soon.  It  gave  her  a 
frank  pleasure  to  think  of  seeing  Amaldi  again.  She  liked 
him  warmly. 

Bellamy  was  speaking  to  her  with  great  earnestness : 

"Mrs.  Chesney,  pray  don't  worry  over  having  to  leave 
your  husband.  Carfew  comes  to-morrow,  you  know,  and  he 
will  tell  you  what  I  tell  you  now,  I  feel  convinced — that  it 
will  be  the  best  thing  possible  for  Chesney  to  have  the  brace 
of  feeling  that  he  must  do  without  you,  for  a  time. ' ' 

Sophy  looked  at  him  with  her  candid  eyes. 

"I  wasn't  worrying,"  she  said.  "I've  thought  that  out 
for  myself.  I  know" — she  spoke  with  quiet  emphasis — 
' '  whether  Doctor  Carfew  says  so  or  not,  that  it  will  be  best 
for  me  to  leave  Cecil  now.  Not  only  for  him  ...  I'm 
thinking  of  myself,  too,  Doctor  Bellamy.  I've  come  to  the 
end  .  .  .  for  the  present.  I  haven 't  anything  more  to 
give  him."  Her  voice  became  suddenly  bitter.  "Not  hope, 
or  patience,  or  belief  ...  or  ...  anything  that  could 
really  help  him,"  she  ended,  flushing  a  little,  feeling  that 
she  had  said  too  much. 

' '  You  are  simply  worn  out,  dear  lady, ' '  he  replied  gently. 
"Your  own  natural  feeling  has  worn  you  out  as  much  as 
anything.  What  Chesney  needs  now  is  the  cruel  kindness 
of  skilled  professionals.  I  hope  that  we  can  succeed  in 
getting  his  consent  to  go  to  Carfew 's  sanatorium." 

Sophy  looked  at  him  rather  inscrutably. 

"I  shall  speak  to  him  about  that  myself — I  made  up  my 
mind  to  do  so  last  night." 

Bellamy  had  never  noticed  how  determined  her  beautiful 
mouth  could  look.  He  thought  how  sad  it  was  that  char 
acter  needed  to  be  hammered  out  on  such  rough  anvils.  It 
was  strange  to  see  it  being  thus  shaped  under  one 's  eyes,  as 
it  were. 

From  this  talk  with  Bellamy  Sophy  went  straight  to 
Lady  Wychcote. 

"Doctor  Bellamy  says  that  Bobby  must  have  a  complete 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  171 

change  of  climate.  I  am  going  to  take  him  to  Italy,  as 
soon  as  I  can  get  packed, ' '  she  said,  without  preliminaries. 

Lady  "Wychcote  's  brow  lowered. 

"What!  You  will  leave  your  husband  to  hirelings?" 
she  asked,  in  her  coldest,  most  metallic  tones. 

"  'Hirelings'  are  the  best  people  to  leave  Cecil  with  at 
present.  You  must  see  that  yourself,"  Sophy  answered, 
unmoved,  and  quite  as  coldly. 

"You  actually  mean  it?" 

"Yes." 

Lady  "VVychcote  's  mouth  thinned  to  a  hair.  The  width 
of  this  hair-line  indicated  an  ironic  smile. 

"You  have  heard  the  saying,  I  presume,  that  a  wife 
should  forsake  all  lesser  ties  in  order  to  cleave  to  her  hus 
band?" 

"I  have,"  replied  Sophy.  "And  that  other  saying,  too: 
'Wives,  submit  yourselves  unto  your  husbands  as  unto  the 
Lord.'  I  haven't  the  least  intention  of  submitting  myself 
to  Cecil  as  'unto  the  Lord.'  And  I  don't  mean  to  sacri 
fice  my  son  to  him,  either. ' ' 

Lady  W^ychcote  said  nothing  at  once,  only  sat  and  looked 
at  her  daughter-in-law.  As  she  saw  the  hardness  to  which 
Sophy 's  face  was  congealing  under  this  look,  she  broke  her 
silence  by  observing: 

"I  was  trying  to  realise  that  you  actually  propose  to 
leave  the  man,  whom  you  promised  to  cherish  in  sickness 
and  in  health — to  leave  him  in  the  clutch  of  a  hideous  ill 
ness — merely  because  your  son,  his  son,  has  had  an  attack 
of  croup." 

Sophy  said  quietly : 

' '  Why  do  you  call  it  an  '  illness, '  Lady  Wychcote  ? ' ' 

Her  mother-in-law  reddened ;  but  replied  doggedly : 

' '  Because  it  is  an  illness.  He  came  near  dying  the  other 
night." 

"People  who  persistently  take  poison  must  come  near 
dying  sometimes,"  said  Sophy. 

Lady  Wychcote  rose. 

' '  I  pity  my  son ! ' '  she  exclaimed.  ' '  I  pity  him  from  the 
depths  of  my  soul!" 

"Yes  ...  I  pity  him,  too,"  said  Sophy. 

"But  not  for  the  same  reason.  I  pity  him  because  he 
has  married  a  heartless  woman ! ' ' 


172  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

Sophy  shook  her  head  gently.  She  had  not  risen.  She 
sat  looking  up  at  her  irate  mother-in-law  out  of  tired  grey 
eyes. 

' '  You  don 't  think  that, ' '  she  said.  ' '  You  don 't  like  me — 
and  you  are  very  angry  with  me  because  I  won't  play 
'patient  Griselda'  any  longer — but  you  don't  think  me 
heartless. ' ' 

"Upon  my  word!"  exclaimed  her  ladyship,  with  a  sort 
of  gasp.  "Upon  my  word!"  she  repeated.  Words  failed 
her. 

Now  Sophy  rose  too.  She  looked  earnestly  into  the 
angry,  pinched  face.  She  was  sorry  for  the  mother  whose 
ambition  had  outweighed  her  love — and  was  now  but  a  grey 
ash  of  disappointment  on  her  burnt-out,  irascible  heart. 

"Lady  Wychcote,"  she  said,  "I  must  tell  you,  whether 
you  believe  me  or  not,  I  must  tell  you  that  even  now,  after 
I  had  seen  Bobby  safe  and  well  in  proper  hands,  I  would 
come  back  to  Cecil — if  it  would  do  him  any  real  good.  No 
—please  let  me  finish.  I  shan't  speak  like  this  again.  I 
would  come  back — horrible,  hideous  as  it  all  is — I  would 
stay  near  him.  But  I  cannot  help  him.  I  am  sure  that  it 
only  does  him  harm  to  have  me — us — always  overlooking — 
forgiving — weakly,  miserably  forgiving.  I  do  not  forgive 
any  longer — I  will  never  forgive  again — unless  he  will  sub 
mit  himself  to  those  who  can  cure  him.  I  won't  risk  my 
life  and  Bobby's — for  his  selfishness — his  brutal  self-indul 
gence.  I  wanted  you  to  understand  why  I  go — just  how  I 
feel.  It  is  only  fair.  I  am  going  to  Italy  with  Bobby. 
Nothing  can  change  me — nothing  that  you,  or  any  one  else, 
can  say.  Nothing — nothing ! ' ' 

Lady  Wychcote  received  this  with  bitter  silence;  then 
she  said  in  a  low  voice  of  the  most  concentrated  resentment : 

"So  you  propose  to  leave  the  burden  of  your  wifely 
duty  on  my  shoulders  ? ' ' 

"No!"  cried  Sophy  passionately.  "As  things  are  now,  I 
have  no  wifely  duty !  The  only  duty  left  me  is  my  duty  to 
my  son  and  to  myself !  I  have  no  husband !  And  while 
this  vile  habit  lasts,  you  have  no  son !  He  loves  only  mor 
phia.  Morphia  is  wife  and  mother  and  child  and  God  to 
him.  Oh,  Lady  Wychcote,  do  you,  too,  leave  him !  Leave 
him  to  those  who  can  save  him.  Forsake  him  so  that,  from 
sheer  loneliness,  he  will  be  forced  to  find  himself  again.  It 
is  the  only  way — the  only,  only  way!" 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  173 

One  cannot  speak  out  of  the  fulness  of  the  heart  with 
genuine,  human  passion,  and  not  move  something — even  if 
it  be  only  the  outmost,  thinnest  veil  of  the  atmosphere  of 
another  spirit.  Lady  Wychcote  was  stirred  unwillingly  by 
this  ardent  appeal,  but  she  would  not  yield  her  pride. 

"Pardon  me,"  she  said  frigidly,  "but  your  desertion  of 
your  post  only  gives  me  double  reason  for  remaining  at 
mine. ' ' 

She  turned  and  went  regally  away  towards  her  own 
apartments.  But  in  truth  her  inward  spirit  was  not  nearly 
as  determined  as  her  well-corseted  back.  That  Sophy 
should  actually  have  resolved  to  leave  her  alone  with  Cecil 
filled  her  with  dismay.  She  had  not  realised,  until  about 
to  lose  it,  the  admirable  ' '  buffer ' '  between  her  and  the  full 
consequences  of  Cecil's  "illness,"  that  Sophy's  presence 
had  provided.  Lady  Wychcote  had,  to  a  marked  degree,  your 
healthy  egoist's  detestation  of  sick-rooms.  Not  only  did 
the  mere  word  "morphinomaniac"  fill  her  with  dread,  but 
it  roused  in  her  the  born  Conservative 's  resentment  against 
anything  in  the  least  outre  or  eccentric.  It  was  Sophy  who 
had  watched,  pleaded,  interviewed  doctors,  read  aloud,  en 
dured  abuse,  lain  awake  at  night.  The  body  of  Sophy's 
vigorous  young  health  had  stood  between  her  and  that 
great,  drug-poisoned  body  of  her  son. 

What  if  .  .  .  ?  Yes,  to  this  point  had  Lady  Wychcote 
been  brought  by  the  realisation  of  her  daughter-in-law's 
imminent  departure.  What  if,  after  all,  the  doctors  were 
right?  If,  for  his  own  sake,  it  would  be  better  to  have 
Cecil  sent  to  a  sanatorium  ? 


XXXI 

SOPHY  gave  Tilda  and  Miller  orders  to  pack,  then  she  sent 
and  asked  to  speak  with  Nurse  Harding  for  a  moment. 
She  wrished  to  know  whether  her  husband  could  see  her,  if 
he  were  in  a  sufficiently  rational  state  for  her  to  talk  with 
him.  Anne  replied  that  he  had  just  had  his  fraction  of 
morphia,  and  that  it  was  his  best  hour  in  the  day. 

"Well,  Daphne?"  he  said,  rather  guiltily,  when  she 
entered.  She  marvelled  that  he  could  call  her  "Daphne." 
It  was  like  throwing  the  flowers  from  a  sacred  grave  into 
the  mire.  She  sat  down  near  him,  and  said : 


174.  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

"I've  come  to  tell  you  that  I'm  going  with  Bobby  to 
Italy  to-morrow." 

lie  looked  blank,  not  taking  it  in  at  first ;  then  he  scowled. 

"I  see.  Shuffling  off  this  marital  coil  with  a  vengeance, 
ain't  you?" 

"  I  'm  going  with  Bobby  because  he  needs  me.  But  even 
if  he  didn't  need  me,  I  should  go.  I  will  not  sit  by  and 
see  you  destroy  yourself." 

"Yes.  I  can  imagine  that  to  hear  of  the  process  from  a 
distance  would  be  more  agreeable." 

"  I  've  tried  with  all  my  might  to  help  you.  You  've  only 
laughed  at  me.  It  amused  you  to  deceive  me.  I  was  no 
help  to  you.  If  I  did  help  you  in  any  way,  it  was  to  ruin 
yourself." 

"Strong  words,  my  love.     So  you  consider  me  a  ruin?" 

"Almost." 

Her  lips  quivered.  She  closed  them  firmly.  For  his  own 
good  she  was  not  going  to  let  that  haggard  face  move  her 
unduly. 

"Mh.  I  see.  Well,  though  I  do  not  seem  to  appeal  to 
your  compassion,  I  trust  that  I  do  to  your  sense  of  the 
picturesque.  Ruins  are  supposed  to  be  romantic.  How 
ever,  a  human  ruin  hasn't  the  same  value  in  the  landscape 
as  an  architectural  one.  Human  ruins  are  generally  put 
under  ground,  not  on  top  of  it.  I  dare  say  the  Cecil  Ches- 
ney  ruin  will  be  thus  disposed  of.  Shall  you  return  for 
the  ceremony,  or  have  you  decided  to  live  permanently  in 
Italy?" 

Sophy  looked  at  him  with  a  sort  of  impassioned  hardness. 

"I  will  come  back  when  you  are  cured — when  you  have 
gone  of  your  own  accord  to  a  place  where  they  can  cure 
you.  Until  then — I  will  never  come  back." 

He  looked  at  her,  hiding  his  real  shock  under  a  harsh 
sarcasm. 

"  'These  be  news!'  "  he  exclaimed  dryly.  "Unlike  the 
leopard,  you  seem  to  have  been  changing  your  spots — the 
spots  on  the  sun  of  my  happiness — the  little  freckles  on 
the  fair  lily  of  your  character." 

"I  have  changed,"  she  said.     "You  have  changed  me." 

"That's  very  interesting.  Our  strongest  influence  seems 
really  to  be  our  unconscious  influence.  Fancy  my  having 
changed  the  dear  partner  of  my  joys  and  sorrows  to  this 
semblance,  and  all  the  while  being  myself  in  total  ignorance 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  175 

of  the  change !  Well,  well !  The  world  wags  and  we  wag 
with  it.  So  you're  determined  to  put  off  the  old  Adam — 
in  other  words,  Cecil  Chesney  ? ' ' 

Sophy  looked  at  him  for  a  moment  without  answering, 
then  she  said  simply: 

"Why  should  I  want  to  be  with  you  when  you  treat  me 
like  this  ?  Why  should  I  risk  my  life  for  a  man  who  doesn't 
love  me  ? ' ' 

'Sol  don't  love  you,  eh?" 

'No." 

'You  really  think  that?" 

'Yes." 

'Why?" 

'Because  you  put  a  poisonous  drug  before  me." 

He  flushed,  biting  his  lip  hard.  Then  he  said  in  a  cold, 
rough  voice: 

"Look  here — am  I  to  take  this  announcement  seri 
ously?" 

"Yes." 

"You  mean  you're  really  going  to  cut  off  to  Italy  and 
leave  me  in  the  lurch — like  a  sick  dog  in  a  ditch  ? ' ' 

"I'm  going  to  Italy  to-morrow." 

' '  God !  you  're  a  fine  helpmate ! "  he  cried  savagely. 
"  'Eyes  take  your  fill  ...  lips  take  you  last  embrace.' 
Come  here ! "  he  barked  suddenly,  tapping  the  side  of  the 
bed  with  his  gaunt  hand.  "Come  to  your  husband,  wifie, 
dear!" 

Sophy  stood  up.     "No,"  she  said. 

"What!  You  refuse  me  a  chaste  embrace? — even  at 
parting?  You're  really  a  sublime  wife,  ain't  you?" 

"I'm  not  a  wife.  I  am  myself.  You  are  not  my  hus 
band.  You  are  not  even  yourself.  Until  you  are  yourself 
I  will  not  come  near  you.  I  will  not  pretend  to  be  your 
wife." 

His  face  was  livid — dreadful.  He  reared  himself  in  the 
bed.  All  his  huge  frame,  so  noticeably  thinner,  trembled. 
He  flung  out  an  arm  towards  the  door. 

"Damn  you!  go,  then!"  he  said  behind  his  teeth.  "If 
you  're  going,  go ! " 

She  was  gone  while  he  was  yet  speaking. 

Dr.  Carfew  arrived  at  Dynehurst  the  next  morning. 
Sophy  was  to  leave  for  the  Continent  that  afternoon.  He 


176  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

had  a  long  conference  with  Lady  Wychcote,  Gerald,  Bel 
lamy  and  Nurse  Harding.  Sophy  was  present  but  said 
very  little.  When  Lady  Wychcote  so  far  put  aside  her 
usual  attitude  of  haughty  reserve  as  to  urge  the  great 
specialist  to  take  charge  of  her  son's  case,  he  met  her 
courteously  but  bluntly. 

"Unless  Mr.  Chesney  is  put  in  one  of  the  places  that  I 
provide  for  such  patients,  I  cannot  do  so,  your  ladyship," 
he  said.  "It  would  be  quite  useless." 

Then  the  question  of  committing  Cecil  to  such  a  place, 
even  without  his  consent,  was  discussed.  Lady  Wychcote 
listened  to  the  arguments  for  this  course  with  a  moderation 
which  she  had  not  hitherto  shown.  When  Carfew  had 
ended,  by  explaining  at  some  length,  for  him,  the  sound 
reasons  for  adopting  such  a  measure  in  the  present  case, 
she  sat  very  thoughtful.  All  looked  at  her  intently.  At 
last  she  said : 

"You  really  think  that  his  mind  may  go,  unless  he  is 
controlled  in  time?" 

"I  do." 

"And  he  is  dangerous — to  others — to  himself?" 

"Surely  your  ladyship  has  had  proof  of  that." 

"Do  you  mean  that  he  might  go  to  the  length  of — of 
self-destruction?" 

"Neither  his  own  life  nor  the  lives  of  others  can  be  safe 
with  an  uncontrolled  madman — whether  his  madness  is 
temporary  or  permanent. ' ' 

Lady  Wychcote  turned  her  lips  inward.  She  was  very 
pale.  She  had  on  no  rouge  whatever  to-day.  At  last  she 
said  in  a  thin  voice : 

"My  own  wishes  can  hardly  stand  against  such  a  state 
ment  from  such  an  authority,  Dr.  Carfew.  But  there  is 
my  daughter-in-law  to  consult.  Let  us  hear  her  opinion." 

Sophy  turned  quietly.  She  had  been  looking  out  of  the 
window  at  the  great,  yew-walled  garden  that  swept  back 
from  the  library  windows.  She  had  been  thinking  how  like 
graves  the  flower-beds  looked.  It  was  a  beautiful  but  sad 
garden.  But  she  had  also  been  listening  attentively  to 
every  word.  The  sudden  yielding  of  her  mother-in-law 
stirred  a  dark  pool  of  humour  lying  at  the  roots  of  her 
tragedy.  She  realised  that  Lady  Wychcote  had  decided  to 
shift  the  self-assumed  burden  of  her  (Sophy's)  "wifely 
duty  "  on  to  the  burly  shoulders  of  the  specialist. 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  177 

' '  I  am  sure  you  will  agree  with  us,  Mrs.  Chesney, ' '  Bel 
lamy  said  eagerly. 

' '  Yes — in  one  way, ' '  she  answered.  ' '  I  am  sure  that  to 
be  in  a  sanatorium  under  Dr.  Carfew's  care  is  the  only 

thing  that  can  cure  Cecil.  But "  She  hesitated.  They 

all  continued  to  look  at  her  intently.  She  flushed,  then 
said  in  a  low,  firm  voice,  ''But  I  think  it  would  be  useless 
to  put  him  there  by  force.  He  would  never  forgive  it.  He 
would  be  cured — yes — for  the  time  being.  But  I  know 
him.  The  moment  that  he  was  free  he  would  begin  all  over 
again — unless  he  went  of  his  own  will. ' ' 

Even  Carfew  became  rather  excited. 

' '  But  my  dear  lady !  Allow  me —  And  he  began  to 

overwhelm  her  with  scientific  refutations  of  her  theory. 
Bellamy  looked  aghast  and  chagrined.  Gerald  began  to 
fidget  with  the  fixtures  on  the  library  table,  pressing  his 
moustache  between  his  lips  and  biting  it  as  was  his  habit 
when  distressed.  Anne  Harding  gazed  at  Sophy  in  blank 
amazement.  Then  her  brown  little  mouth  pressed  together. 
She  was  thinking  hard. 

"Do  you  mean  to  say,"  Lady  Wychcote  put  in  when 
Carfew  had  finished  and  Sophy  still  sat  silent,  "that,  after 
urging  me  to  send  for  Dr.  Carfew,  you  will  refuse  to  fol 
low  his  advice?  Refuse  to  join  with  me  in  this — this — 
evidently  necessary  course?" 

"I  can't  advise  using  force  on  Cecil,  Lady  Wychcote. 
It  would  only  make  him  hate  us.  It  would  do  no  lasting 
good.  Only  if  he  goes  of  his  own  accord  will  it  do  good." 

Lady  Wychcote  looked  expressively  at  Carfew,  whom  she 
had  suddenly  accepted  as  an  ally.  "You  see  what  I  have 
to  contend  with  ! ' '  said  this  look. 

They  argued  with  her  quite  uselessly.  She  left  the  room 
presently,  still  resolved  not  to  become  a  party  to  the  re 
moval  of  Cecil  by  force  from  Dynehurst. 

The  great  man  shrugged  his  shoulders,  as  who  should 
say,  "The  ways  of  God  and  woman  are  past  finding  out." 
Then  he  looked  at  his  watch.  He  had  still  to  see  the 
"patient"  who  had  so  unexpectedly  consented  to  an  inter 
view.  In  accordance  writh  Bellamy's  urgent  appeal  he  had 
consented  to  put  certain  facts  before  Chesney  with  unvar 
nished  plainness. 

Chesney  received  him  with  his  sketchy  smile. 

"Salaam,"  said  he.    "It  is  a  relief  to  receive  the  Caliph 


178  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

himself,  after  having  had  to  put  up  for  so  long  with  the 
Chief  Eunuch.  At  least  you're  a  proper  male,"  he  con 
cluded,  looking  with  approval  at  the  lean,  massive  form  of 
the  physician. 

Carfew  met  this  imperturbably.  He  put  a  few  ques 
tions,  which  Chesney  fended  with  his  usual  half-droll,  half- 
savage  ironies,  then  he  said : 

"Has  it  ever  occurred  to  you  to  think  what  the  end  of 
your  'pleasant  vice'  will  be,  Mr.  Chesney?" 

Cecil  frowned.  But  the  next  instant  he  resumed  his 
callous,  mocking  expression. 

"The  'ends'  of  things,  0  Guardian  of  the  Faithful," 
said  he,  "are  with  Allah.  lie  ties  them  into  what  bow- 
knots  seemeth  best  to  him. ' ' 

"Shaitan  can  tie  knots  as  well  as  Allah,"  replied  Car- 
few,  who  was  one  of  the  best  read  men  in  England,  as  well 
as  one  of  her  foremost  scientists.  "He  dips  them  in  blood 
sometimes  to  warp  them  tighter,"  he  added  grimly. 

"Speak  more  plainly  to  thy  slave,  O  Chosen  of  Allah." 

"I  will,"  said  Carfew.  "From  what  you  have  said,  so 
far — your  allusion  to  my  confrere  Bellamy  in  particular — 
I  gather  that  you  look  upon  lack  of  virility  as  a  thing  to 
be  scoffed  at." 

"Naturally.  Does  not  Mahomet  report  Houris  in  para 
dise?  There  will  be  no  guardians  of  the  Harem  there  I 
fancy,  O  great  Caliph  ! ' ' 

' '  The  Paradise  of  Morphia  may  begin  with  houris, ' '  said 
Carfew  dryly,  "but  it  ends  with  horrors — sexless  horrors. 
I  would  not  jeer  at  sexlessness,  if  I  were  you.  A  fellow- 
feeling  should  make  you  kind." 

Fury  made  Cecil  natural  if  not  kind. 

"What  the  hell  are  you  after,  you  damned  charlatan?" 
he  demanded  savagely. 

"I?  I  am  after  making  myself  clear,  as  an  Irishman 
would  say.  I  only  mean  to  warn  you  that  the  little  instru 
ment  you  prize  so  much — the  hypodermic  syringe  when 
used  in  connection  with  morphia — produces,  in  the  end, 
tha  unfortunate  condition  which  you  so  deride.  Man 
hood,  in  every  sense  of  the  word,  goes  down  before  mor 
phia,  Mr.  Chesney.  I  have  promised  your  mother  and  Dr. 
Bellamy  to  put  things  plainly  to  you.  Perhaps  a  natural 
curiosity  as  to  the  scientific  aspect  of  your  habit  may  in 
duce  you  to  listen." 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  179 

This  was  in  fact  the  case.  Carf ew  's  words,  while  enrag 
ing  Cecil,  had  given  him  pause.  He  thrust  out  a  sullen 
lip,  glowering  at  the  great  man,  like  Minotaur  at  one  who 
has  just  given  the  yearly  boat-load  of  virgins  a  shove  sea 
ward. 

"Well,  damn  it — I  admit  a  'low  curiosity.'  Get  on,  can't 
you?" 

Carfew  "got  on."  Coolly  and  methodically,  as  though 
unrolling  a  neatly  illustrated  script  before  the  other's 
eyes,  he  presented  to  him  a  clear,  detailed  picture  of  the 
morphinomaniac 's  descent  of  Avernus. 

"Little  by  little,  all  will  go  but  that  one,  ever-increasing 
desire,"  he  concluded;  "honour  first,  then  sex,  then  all  hu 
man  sympathy — then,  a  small  matter  perhaps,  after  these 
others,  but  to  a  well-bred  man  sufficiently  unpleasant  to 
contemplate — personal  cleanliness.  You  will  become  filthy 
— you  will  not  care.  One  thing  alone  of  heaven  and  earth 
will  be  left  you — the  lust  for  morphia  and  its  parasite — 
alcohol.  So  these  two  were  available,  you  might  stink  in 
the  nostrils  of  God  and  man — you  would  be  quite  indiffer 
ent.  I  remember,"  he  broke  off  on  another  tone,  seeming 
not  to  see  the  dull,  unwilling  look  of  arrestment,  as  it  were, 
on  Chesney's  face,  "I  remember,  years  ago,  reading  a 
clever  book  by  Knatchbull-Hugessen,  a  little  volume  of 
fairy-tales.  Among  these  tales  was  one  called  'Skitzland.' 
I  rather  suspect  that  he  was  having  a  fling  at  us  specialists 
in  that  sketch ;  but  then  there  are  those  who  specialise  on 
other  things  than  science — morphia,  for  instance.  To 
Skitzland  were  supposed  to  go  those  who  had  sacrificed  all 
senses  to  one.  A  man  in  Skitzland  would  find  himself  only 
a  huge  ear,  or  an  eye,  or  a  stomach,  and  so  on.  Well,  Mr. 
Chesney" — he  turned  sideways  in  his  chair  and  fixed  his 
cold,  super-intelligent  eyes  on  the  sick  man's — "your  fate 
in  the  Skitzland  of  morphia  will  be  to  exist  only  as  one 
huge,  avid,  diseased  nerve-cell  rank  with  the  lust  of  mor 
phia.  Just  that.  Nothing  more.  And  this  diseased  nerve- 
cell  which  will  be  you  would  slay  Christ  if  He  appeared 
again,  and  you  thought  the  last  dose  of  morphia  were  se 
creted  in  the  Seamless  Garment.  Good-morning." 

And  he  was  gone  before  Cecil  could  moisten  his  dry  lips 
to  reply. 

Anne  found  him  sullenly  resentful  of  the  doctor's  visit. 

' '  I  hope  you  've  packed  that  old  prime  faker  back  to  the 


180  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

courts  of  science, ' '  he  grumbled,  as  she  busied  herself  tidy 
ing  his  bed  which  he  had  rumpled  with  his  ill-humoured 
tossings.  "I'll  none  of  him  nor  his  damned  mountebank 
ing,  that 's  flat. ' ' 

"He'll  none  of  you,  unless  you  do  as  he  wishes,  and 
that's  flatter,"  rejoined  Anne  tartly. 

Chesney  gave  a  whiff  of  utter  contempt. 

"Stick  myself  in  one  of  his  man-traps,  I  suppose  you 
mean.  I'll  sign  to  Mephisto  with  my  blood  first! — Just 
let  'em  try  it  on !"  he  added  ominously. 

' '  Oh  you  make  me  tired  ! — tired  and  sick, ' '  flashed  Anne 
Harding.  "You  talk  and  act  as  if  we  were  all  trying  to 
lure  you  to  destruction,  instead  of  wearing  ourselves  to  the 
bone  to  save  you  from  worse  than  death !  Look  here — 
She  drew  up  a  chair  and  sat  down  squarely  on  it,  her  little 
black  eyes  like  coals  in  which  a  red  spark  lingers.  "I'm 
not  going  to  stay  on  with  you  as  things  are,  so  I  might 
just  as  well  have  my  say  out — I  don't  give  a  hang  whether 
it's  'unprofessional'  or  not.  So  I'll  just  tell  you  this: 
Your  mother  went  back  on  you  this  morning.  I  mean  she 
went  over  to  our  side — we,  who  'd  put  you  in  a  sanatorium 
ay  or  no.  'Twas  your  wife  held  out  against  it.  And  the 
more  I  think  of  it,  the  more  I  believe  she's  right.  Says 
she,  'No,  I  won't  lend  myself  to  using  force  on  him.  Un 
less  he  goes  of  his  own  will  it  won't  do  any  good.'  I  didn't 
think  so  then.  But  I  do  now.  If  your  own  will  is  bent  on 
perdition,  not  all  the  other  wills  in  the  world  are  going  to 
save  you.  That's  why  I'm  going  to  give  you  up.  I'm  too 
useful,  thank  God !  to  waste  my  time  on  a  man  who 's  hell 
bent  on  his  own  destruction. ' ' 

She  pushed  the  chair  sharply  back,  and  got  up. 

' '  Hold  on ! "  cried  Chesney  as  she  turned  away.  He  had 
listened  to  her  without  interruption,  a  most  peculiar  ex 
pression  on  his  face.  "Did  I  understand  you  to  say  that 
Sophy — that  Mrs.  Chesney,  held  out  against  the  lot  of 
'em?" 

"You  did.  I  was  one  of  the  'lot  of  'em,'  so  I  ought  to 
know,"  replied  Anne. 

"She  stood  by  me — in  the  face  of  all  that  pressure?" 

"She  stood  up  for  what  she  believed  in — I  don't  think 
that's  you,  just  at  present,"  said  Anne  viciously. 

"Hold  your  tongue,  spitfire,  and  let  me  think,"  returned 
Chesney,  but  without  anger.  He  lay  brooding  deeply  for 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  181 

some  moments.  Then  lie  said:  ''Just  go  and  ask  Mrs. 
Chesney  to  come  here  a  moment,  will  you?" 

Anne  consulted  the  bracelet  watch. 

"It's  almost  time  for  her  to  leave.  Don't  make  her  miss 
her  train  if  I  fetch  her." 

"  I  '11  thank  you  to  do  what  I  ask ! ' '  said  Chesney,  look 
ing  dangerous.  "It's  not  for  you  to  make  conditions  when 
I  wish  to  see  my  wife. ' ' 

Anne  glanced  at  him,  then  went  meekly  on  the  errand. 
She  knew  exactly  when  to  insert  bandelleros  and  when  to 
apply  balm. 

Sophy  came  at  once.  She  looked  pale  but  quiet  in  her 
dark  brown  travelling  gown  and  hat. 

"You  sent  for  me,  but  I  was  coming  anyway  to  say 
good-by,  Cecil,"  she  said,  in  her  low  voice. 

He  looked  at  her  very  strangely,  she  thought.  She  never 
remembered  having  seen  quite  this  expression  on  his  face. 

' '  It  was  not  exactly  to  say  good-by  that  I  sent  for  you, ' ' 
he  said  after  a  pause.  His  voice,  too,  was  low.  There  was 
some  restrained  emotion  in  it,  whether  anger  or  regret  she 
could  not  tell.  He  continued : 

"I  sent  for  you  in  fact — to — to  thank  you,  among  other 
things." 

"To  thank  me?" 

She  flushed  cruelly.  She  thought  he  wished  to  bait  her 
with  his  bitter  mockery  for  this  last  time.  He  saw  her 
slight  figure  brace  itself,  and  her  hands  close  nervously. 
He  flushed  himself. 

"You  needn't  fear  any  brutishness  on  my  part,  not  just 
now,"  he  said,  still  in  that  low  voice.  "I'm  not  sneering. 
I  want  to  thank  you  for  holding  out  against  the  others  this 
morning.  Nurse  Harding  told  me  of  it." 

"Ah,"  said  Sophy.  She  drew  a  deep  breath.  "I  told 
them  it  would  be  no  use,"  she  added  sadly. 

"You  were  right.     Thank  you  again." 

His  eyes  ran  over  her  travelling  costume. 

"So  you're  really  going?"  he  said. 

"Yes." 

He  was  silent  again.     Then  he  said  slowly: 

"Well— I'm  going,  too." 

"What!"  said  Sophy.  She  did  not  understand.  She 
looked  frightened.  Did  he  mean  that  he  would  try  to  come 
with  her — follow  her  ? 


182 

"You  misunderstand  me — naturally,"  he  said,  with  some 
bitterness.  "I  do  not  mean  that  I  am  going  with  you— 
agreeable  as  that  might  be."  He  could  not  suppress  this 
mild  sneer:  his  heart  was  very  sore  and  angry  under  his 
cooler  mood.  "I  mean  that  your  confounded  magnani- 
rnousness  lias  got  under  my  armour — I'm  going  to  man 
handle  myself  just  because  you  wouldn't  let  me  be  man 
handled  by  others." 

Sophy  held  her  breath.  He  knew  that  trick  of  hers.  It 
meant  that  she  was  moved  to  the  quick  and  afraid  to 
believe  her  own  senses.  His  set  look  broke  a  little. 

"Yes,  I  mean  it,"  he  said  rather  gruffly.  lie  sneered 
again,  at  himself  this  time.  "I  don't  blame  you  for  look 
ing  sceptical — I  believe  there's  a  good  authority  that  says, 
'A  liar  shall  not  be  believed  though  he  speak  the  truth.'  ' 

"White  and  red  flame  seemed  to  flicker  over  Sophy 's  face. 
She  put  up  both  hands  against  her  breast. 

"Cecil  .  .  .?"she  said. 

"Yes,  my  girl,"  he  answered  flippantly;  "this  wary  old 
rat  is  going  to  nip  into  the  trap  after  the  excellent  bit  of 
cheese  you  baited  it  with  this  morning.  Now  don't — 
don't — for  God's  sake,  don't  make  a  fuss!"  he  ended  ir 
ritably. 

But  Sophy  had  flung  herself  on  her  knees  beside  the  bed, 
hiding  her  face — regardless  of  veil  and  hat.  Her  voice, 
smothered  in  the  bedclothes,  reached  him  faintly: 

"  I  'm  not  going  to — don 't  be  afraid — I  'm  not  going  to — 
I  only  wanted  to  thank — to  thank — 

"Me?"  asked  Chesney  sardonically,  yet  with  a  hungrily 
tender  look  back  of  his  eyes  that  were  bent  on  the  crushed 
brown-velvet  hat. 

"No— God!"  said  Sophy  softly. 

Then  she  rose  to  her  feet  again. 

"I  won't  try  to  say  anything,"  she  murmured.  "I 
think  you  know  what  I  am  feeling 

"Mh — I  couldn't  go  that  far.  Women  are  sealed  vol 
umes  to  an  average  chap  like  me.  Or,  if  they  aren't  sealed, 
they're  written  in  some  hierophantic  script  that's  beyond 
the  poor  layman." 

He  took  suddenly  a  more  natural  tone. 

"But  if  I've  given  you  a  whit  of  the  satisfaction  that 
your  plucky  stand  gave  me — why,  then,  we're  quits,"  he 
ended. 


183 

Sophy  held  out  her  hand. 

"I  shall  be  thinking  of  you  all  the  time,  Cecil." 

"Thanks.    You'll  send  a  line  now  and  then?" 

"Indeed  I  will.    Every  day,  if  you  like." 

"No.  That's  too  much  to  expect.  I  don't  believe  in 
setting  kindness  tasks.  Tell  the  little  chap  good-by  for 
me.  Hope  Italy  will  make  him  quite  fit." 

"I  will.  Good-by.  Some  day  I'll — I  can't  say  things 
now. ' ' 

' '  Don 't  try.    I  don 't  want  it. ' ' 

He  hesitated,  still  holding  her  hand.  Then  flushed  again 
darkly. 

"Would  it — er — go  too  much  against  the  grain  for  you 
to  give  the — er — condemned — a  kiss?" 

She  stooped  and  kissed  him  warmly,  lifting  her  veil,  and 
pressing  her  cheek  to  his.  The  great  arms  held  her  tight 
an  instant,  then  pushed  her  somewhat  roughly  away. 

"Go — there's  a  good  girl — please  go —       '  he  said. 

This  going  of  Sophy  was  very  different  from  the  last  time 
that  he  had  bidden  her  from  him. 

She  went ;  and  ten  minutes  later  Nurse  Harding  came  in 
again. 

Her  patient  had  turned  his  face  to  the  wall  and  flung 
an  arm  over  it.  She  glanced  at  him  curiously  from  time 
to  time,  busying  herself  here  and  there  about  the  room  in 
her  mouse-like  way.  Then  she  drew  up  the  prescribed  dose 
of  poison  into  the  little  glass  and  metal  instrument,  and 
went  over  to  the  bed. 

' '  I  say,  sir, ' '  she  began,  almost  shyly  for  Nurse  Harding. 
"I  wouldn't  bother  you,  but  it's  time  for  your  hypo — 

He  did  not  stir.    Anne  blinked. 

"Want  to  play  'good  boy'  and  lengthen  the  time,  sir?" 

No  answer  and  no  movement.  Anne  went  softly  and  laid 
the  syringe  on  the  table.  Then  she  came  back.  She  stood 
for  a  moment,  biting  her  sharp  little  knuckles  and  staring 
down  at  the  broad  back.  Then  she  burst  out: 

"Mrs.  Chesney's  told  me,  sir." 

Again  she  broke  off,  and  again  burst  forth. 

' '  I — I  always  said  you  were  an  Old  Sport.  .  .  .  Now  I  '11 
— I'll  be  hanged — if  you  ain't  the  sportiest  Old  Sport  as 
ever  was ! ' ' 

She  spun  on  her  heel,  and  went  out,  clacking  the  door 
most  unprofessionally.  She  went  to  have  two  minutes  of 


184  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

what  she  called  a  "good  blub."  It  was  Sophy's  joy,  to 
gether  with  Chesney's  sudden  capitulation,  that  had  upset 
Nurse  Harding.  She  had  become  excessively  attached  to 
Sophy,  and,  in  spite  of  all  his  fundamental  brutality,  she 
had  a  "soft  spot"  for  her  patient. 


XXXII 

THE  most  extraordinary  exhilaration  came  over  Sophy 
from  the  moment  that  the  little  Channel  steamer  cast  off, 
and  she  heard  the  surge  of  the  sea  about  her  and  felt  the 
keen  tang  of  its  breath  upon  her  face:  a  sort  of  light- 
hearted  sense  of  adventure,  of  the  romance  of  a  lonely 
setting  forth  for  strange  countries.  Oddly  enough  she  had 
never  been  either  to  France  or  to  Italy.  Now  she  was  go 
ing  to  both  those  famous  lands,  and  alone — her  own  courier 
— her  own  mistress.  She  felt  what  she  had  once  heard  an 
excited  child  call  "journey-proud."  And  the  sense  that 
Cecil  was  in  safe  hands,  was  going  of  his  own  accord  to  a 
place  where  cure  was  certain,  left  her  conscience-free  to 
revel  in  this  sense  of  delicious  detachment.  It  was  as  if 
she  had  been  reborn  into  some  lighter,  more  tenuous  body. 
She  felt  as  one  does  in  those  dreams  when,  by  only  holding 
one's  breath  and  springing  upward,  one  floats  delicately 
free  of  the  law  of  gravitation — casting  off  all  heaviness  of 
mind  and  body. 

She  stayed  on  deck.  Bobby  and  the  two  maids  were  below 
in  a  cabin.  It  was  very  calm.  The  sea  spread  flat  and 
silken  under  a  high  moon.  She  did  not  feel  lonely.  This 
solitude  of  the  sufficient  self  was  ecstasy,  after  the  long, 
feverish  contact  with  others. 

When  they  landed  at  Calais,  the  gay  pizzicato  of  the 
French  tongue  gave  her  such  pleasure  that  she  wanted  to 
laugh  out  like  a  child  suddenly  tickled  by  light  fingers. 
It  was  so  fitting — so  deliciously  appropriate.  Here  was  she 
reborn  to  a  new  heaven  and  a  new  earth.  Of  course  there 
must  be  also  a  new  language.  How  glad  she  was  that  her 
old  governess  had  been  French!  It  seemed  that  a  kindly 
Fate  had  been  long  ago  preparing  her  for  this  gay  mo 
ment,  as  well  as  this  moment  for  her.  She  spoke  pretty, 
clear  French — had  spoken  it  since  babyhood.  It  was  a 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  185 

fresh  magic  to  find  herself  so  well  understood.  That  the 
day  was  overcast,  as  they  went  rushing  on  to  Paris,  through 
the  wide,  fenceless,  hedgeless  fields,  did  not  damp  her  joy 
ous  mood.  This  greyness  was  so  different  from  that  of 

England — as  different  as  moonstones  from  onyx She 

looked  at  the  frail  pallor  of  the  sky,  and  thought  of  the 
moonstones  of  Ceylon,  in  whose  watery  silver  there  is  a 
gleam  of  blue.  She  did  not  care  if  the  sun  of  France 
veiled  itself;  so  that  Italy  burst  on  her  in  floods  of  golden 
light  she  was  content.  She  could  not  bear  the  thought  of 
seeing  Italy,  for  the  first  time,  demure  and  grey.  On  the 
bright  horizon  of  her  fancy  it  floated  like  a  magic  island 
wrought  of  golden  glass  and  lapis-lazuli — colonnaded  with 
pale  marble — hung  round  about  with  gardens  like  ancient 
Babylon — crowned  with  lilies  like  its  own  Florence — and 
with  violets  like  Athens.  The  "  blunt-nosed "  bees  of 
Theocritus  hummed  about  it.  Song-birds  like  living  jewels 
flew  above  it.  Alas !  She  did  not  know  that  the  inhabitants 
of  her  fairyland  devour  their  song-birds. 

But  though  she  dreamed  of  the  Italy  of  poets  and  paint 
ers,  she  had  to  go  direct  to  practical  Milan.  Bellamy 
thought  it  important  that  a  certain  Dr.  Johnson  who  lived 
there  should  see  Bobby  before  she  took  him  to  Lago  Mag- 
giore  for  the  remainder  of  the  summer. 

She  found  the  town  so  hot  and  dusty  that  she  decided 
not  to  go  out  until  evening.  The  doctor  was  to  see  Bobby 
next  day.  She  had  a  light  dinner  in  her  own  room,  then 
went  downstairs  to  order  an  open  cab.  The  night  was 
lovely  after  the  scorching  day.  She  thought  a  drive  about 
the  streets  would  be  amusing.  Her  gay,  care-free  mood 
was  still  upon  her.  This  was  Italy — Italy — and  day  after 
to-morrow  she  would  be  on  one  of  its  beautiful  lakes.  With 
this  thought  came  the  thought  of  Amaldi.  She  ought  really 
to  let  him  know  that  she  was  in  Italy,  was  going  to  his  own 
beloved  lake.  How  pleasant  it  would  be  to  see  him  again. 
How  surprised  he  would  be.  Then,  too,  to  meet  his  mother 
— that  would  be  a  new  pleasure. 

She  stepped  from  the  marble  stairway  into  the  hall  of 
the  hotel,  remembering  all  at  once  that  she  did  not  have 
Amaldi 's  address.  But  then  "Marchese  Amaldi,  Lago 
Maggiore"  ought  to  be  enough.  Still,  yes,  it  would  be  bet 
ter  to  ask  at  the  office  of  the  hotel.  They  would  doubtless 
be  able  to  give  it  to  her. 


186 

The  head-clerk  smiled  affably  as  she  asked,  and  made  a 
sweeping  gesture  with  his  left  arm. 

"But,  Madame,  there  is  the  Marchese  himself,"  said  he. 

Sophy  turned  quickly. 

Amaldi,  who  had  just  entered,  was  lighting  a  cigarette, 
his  back  turned  towards  her.  Then  he  turned  suddenly 
just  as  she  had  done,  and  saw  her.  The  next  moment  she 
had  given  him  her  hand  and  was  explaining  how  she  hap 
pened  to  be  in  Milan  in  the  dead  of  summer.  Her  explana 
tions  were  a  vague  murmur  to  Amaldi.  He  was  thinking 
that  nothing  less  than  Fate  had  ordered  it.  It  was 
"meant"  that  she  should  come  to  Italy  and  that  he  should 
be  holding  her  hand  in  his — after  so  many  bitter  dreams. 
Fate  had  brought  her  back  into  his  life — the  one  woman  he 
had  ever  desired  with  his  whole  being. 

He  had  only  a  few  moments  with  her,  however,  before 
the  friend  for  whom  he  had  called  came  downstairs.  His 
mother  was  waiting  outside  in  her  carriage.  Might  she 
call  on  Mrs.  Chesney  next  day?  Sophy  said  that  she  had 
just  been  thinking  what  a  pleasure  it  would  be  to  meet  the 
Marchesa.  She  smiled  at  him  as  she  said  this  and  gave 
him  her  hand  again.  Amaldi,  who  was  rather  pale,  bent 
and  kissed  it.  Then  he  joined  his  mother's  guest  and  they 
went  out  together. 

Sophy  wished  that  he  could  have  driven  with  her  that 
evening.  He  was  even  nicer  than  she  remembered  him. 

"I  wonder  if  he  is  like  his  mother?"  she  thought  as  she 
got  into  the  little  carozza  for  her  lonely  outing.  "  I  'm  sure 
to  like  her  if  she  is  anything  like  him. "  And  all  during  the 
drive  she  kept  wishing  that  Amaldi  could  have  come  with 
her. 

Next  afternoon  the  Marchesa  called.  She  was  a  tall, 
finely  made  woman  of  the  Juno  type,  with  beautiful,  light 
brown,  sparkling  eyes  under  jet  black  eyebrows,  and  a  fluff 
of  silken,  fox-grey  hair  that  must  have  been  gold-red  when 
she  was  young.  But  then,  as  it  was,  youth  unquenchable 
laughed  from  those  shrewd,  brilliant  eyes,  though  she  \vas 
sixty.  Her  little  bonnet  of  white  camellias  with  its  big, 
black  bow,  that  so  became  her,  was  all  Paris  in  a  hat-frame. 
She  evidently  had  a  "sweet-tooth"  for  confections  in  dress, 
just  as  some  people  have  for  actual  bonbons. 

She  had  not  talked  in  her  natural,  easy,  laughing  way 
for  ten  minutes  before  Sophy  thought  her  the  most  delight- 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  187 

ful  woman  she  had  ever  known.  She  asked  almost  at  once 
to  see  Bobby — won  his  heart  immediately.  Told  Sophy 
that  she  needn't  worry  in  the  least  about  doctors  on  the 
Lake — that  there  was  an  excellent  one,  an  old  friend  of 
hers,  at  Stresa — Cesare  Camenis. 

"Eh! — the  tousm  (little  fellow)  has  adopted  me  for  his 
Nonna!"  she  added,  laughing  again  the  next  instant,  as 
Bobby  hauled  himself  up  by  her  fan-chain  and  tried  to 
pull  off  her  bonnet,  saying: 

"Take  off!    Tay  wiv  Bobby!" 

As  for  Sophy,  if  she  had  not  fallen  in  love  with  Amaldi, 
she  had  certainly  fallen  in  love  with  his  mother.  The  feel 
ing  was  mutual.  The  Marchesa  had  had  two  sons  but  no 
daughter.  She  had  always  longed  for  a  little  girl.  Now 
she  thought  that  she  would  like  to  have  had  a  daughter  as 
much  like  Sophy  as  possible.  And,  as  this  thought  came  to 
her,  it  brought  another  less  agreeable. 

The  sad  destiny  of  her  Marco  made  the  Marchesa  very 
lenient  in  facing  certain  problems,  though  she  was  essen 
tially  a  woman  of  broad,  indulgent  views.  Since  twenty- 
six  (he  was  now  thirty-one)  he  had  lived  like  a  widower 
whom  some  mistaken  vow  has  cut  off  from  re-marrying. 
Not  that  the  Marchesa  deceived  herself  with  the  credulity 
of  the  average  Anglo-Saxon  mother  in  such  cases.  She  did 
not  for  one  moment  think  that  her  son  had  led  the  life  of 
an  ascetic  during  this  enforced  widowhood.  Light  liaisons 
she  knew  well  there  had  been ;  but  Marco  was  not  a  sen 
sualist.  Such  flitting  fires  could  never  really  warm  or  con 
sole  him.  And  as  she  looked  now  at  Sophy,  thinking  how 
pleasant  it  would  be  to  have  such  a  daughter,  she  also 
realised  that  this  lovely,  tall  girl,  with  her  spell-bound 
looking  grey  eyes,  and  sensitive,  romantic  mouth,  was  the 
very  type  of  woman  to  appeal  to  Marco  with  the  threefold 
lure  of  spirit,  mind,  and  flesh.  Though  he  had  spoken 
much  of  Sophy  to  his  mother,  since  his  return  from  Eng 
land,  with  frank  admiration  and  compassion  for  her  sad 
fate  in  being  married  to  such  a  man  as  Chesney,  he  had 
not  given  the  slightest  impression  of  being  amoureux 
d'elle.  But  there  came  over  the  Marchesa  a  strong  pre 
science  of  danger — of  something  to  be  guarded  against. 
Should  Marco  see  too  much  of  Mrs.  Chesney,  should  he 
become  "in  love"  with  her,  why,  then  there  was  here  no 
passing  liaison  to  be  considered,  but  something  of  the 


188  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

nature  of  tragedy.  Not  only  was  Marco  bound  by  his 
disastrous  marriage,  but  here  was  a  woman  doubly  bound 
— not  only  by  marriage,  but  by  motherhood.  A  bad  mother 
may  make  an  enchanting  mistress,  but  a  bad  mother  will 
never  make  a  true  wife.  The  Marchesa  knew  her  Marco 
well.  She  knew  that,  should  he  love  a  woman  of  Sophy's 
type,  he  would  not  want  her  for  a  mistress,  but  for  a  wife. 
That  was  what  love — the  one  big,  crowning  love — would 
mean  to  Marco.  Now  if  in  future  he  should  love  this 
woman  and  she  him,  and  should  give  up  her  son  for  him — 
she  would  not  be  what  his  love  had  imagined.  If  she 
should  not  give  up  her  son — his  love  must  burn  out  in 
bitterness. 

Yes,  she  must  watch ;  she  must  be  wise  as  many  serpents 
and  harmless  as  a  flock  of  doves ;  but  she  must  also  be  pre 
pared,  at  the  tirst  sign  of  real  danger,  to  give  Marco  a  word 
of  serious  warning.  This  action  on  her  part  would  have  all 
the  more  weight  with  him  as  she  rarely,  almost  never,  in 
terfered  in  his  personal  affairs. 

And  all  the  time  that  she  was  thus  reflecting,  she  smoked 
Sophy's  gold-tipped  cigarettes  and  chatted  pleasantly. 

Sophy  heard  with  delight  that  the  Marchesa  was  return 
ing  to  the  Lake  the  next  afternoon  by  the  same  train  on 
which  she  also  was  going. 

She  was  early  at  the  station.  It  thrilled  her  to  read  the 
placards  with  such  lovely,  well-known  names  on  them. 
Como! — They  passed  that  sign  on  their  way  to  the  car 
riages  bound  for  Lago  Maggiore.  It  seemed  very  odd  to 
see  that  name  of  romance  written  upon  a  railway  carriage. 

Amaldi  and  his  mother  joined  her  shortly.  As  they  set 
tled  down  comfortably  in  the  queer  little  carriage,  Amaldi 
bought  copies  of  the  leading  Milan  papers  and  handed  them 
in  through  the  window.  To  Sophy's  surprise,  when  he 
entered  the  carriage  a  few  minutes  later,  he  laid  a  fresh 
copy  of  Harper's  on  the  seat  beside  her,  smiling  at  her 
astonished  look. 

"We're  very  'up  to  date,'  as  you  say,  in  Milan,"  he 
laughed. 

But  Sophy  could  not  read.  She  was  too  excited.  She  sat 
in  a  lazy,  happy  trance  gazing  from  the  window. 

The  Marchesa  dozed  frankly.  Bobby  was  sound  as  a 
top.  Sophy  had  never  felt  more  keenly,  vividly  awake  in 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  189 

her  life.  She  began  to  day-dream.  And  as  she  sat  there, 
now  glancing  out  of  window,  now  watching  the  pleasant 
smile  which  sleep  had  drawn  on  the  Marchesa 's  face,  now 
the  soles  of  Bobby's  sturdy  shoes  protruding  from  under 
the  arm  of  the  seat  as  he  lay  with  his  red  curls  on  Miller's 
lap,  now  noticing  how  sharp-cut  was  Amaldi's  dark,  ir 
regular  profile  against  the  flashing  green  outside,  she  found 
herself  suddenly  thinking: 

"Suppose  this  dear,  charming  woman  were  my  mother- 
in-law  instead  of  Lady  Wychcote — suppose  he  were  my 
husband — suppose  I  were  Sophy  Amaldi  instead  of  Sophy 
Chesney — going  for  a  happy  summer  to  the  Villa  Amaldi 
— sure  of  kindness,  sure  of  sympathy,  sure  of  love 

This  fancy  did  not  form  itself  into  regular  phrases  such 
as  these,  but  came  in  a  flashing,  involuntary  impression. 
She  started  with  dismay  and  glanced  around  nervously. 
Amaldi  was  looking  at  her.  She  bent  forward,  lifting  up 
one  of  the  papers  that  had  fallen  to  the  floor.  Her  hand 
touched  the  Marchesa  's  foot.  That  lady  started  wide  awake. 

"Oh,  Dio!"  she  exclaimed,  glancing  out.  "We're  nearly 
there!  Marco,  my  umbrella,  please — and  Mrs.  Chesney 's. 
You  'd  better  tell  the  maids  to  get  ready. ' ' 

She  looked  tenderly  at  Bobby.  "What  a  shame  to  wake 
the  tousin!"  she  said. 

Now  they  were  rattling  round  a  great  haunch  of  moun 
tain — the  southern  flank  of  the  Sasso  di  Ferro.  They  had 
reached  Laveno.  Lago  Maggiore  lay  before  them.  The 
lake  spread  milkily  iridescent.  The  sky  was  the  colour  of 
periwinkle,  with  towards  the  zenith  a  flight  of  silver  cloud 
wings.  The  glimpse  of  Alps  beyond  Baveno  was  a  hush  of 
violet.  It  was  one  of  those  delicately  veiled  afternoons 
when  the  Lake  is  at  its  best.  It  looked  mysterious,  promis 
ing,  like  the  tempered  beauty  of  a  woman  beneath  a  gauzy 
yashmak. 

Amaldi  saw  the  maids  and  luggage  safely  on  the  little 
steamer  that  was  waiting  at  the  imbarcadero.  Sophy  and 
Bobby  were  to  go  with  the  Marchesa  in  the  steam-launch. 

As  into  a  mirage  the  little  launch  shot  forth  across  the 
Lake.  Sophy  sat  with  Bobby  in  her  arms. 

But  there  was  something  wistful,  faintly  sorrowful  in 
this  aerial  beauty.  There  was  a  soul  in  it,  a  yearning  as  in 
all  souls.  She  put  down  her  cheek  on  Bobby's  head,  and, 
thus  unseen,  the  tears  came  stealing. 


190  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

"Poor  child,"  thought  the  Marchesa,  who  divined  those 
tears  she  could  not  see,  "poor  child  .  .  .  but  I  must  speak 
to-night — I  must — I  really  must." 

When  they  reached  Baveno,  the  Marchesa  insisted  on 
getting  out  and  going  up  to  the  hotel  with  Sophy  to  see 
that  she  was  given  nice  rooms.  Something  about  the  young 
Avonian,  all  alone  with  her  little  son,  went  to  her  heart. 
The  Marchesa  herself  had  not  been  very  happy  in  her  mar 
riage.  Her  fullest  life  had  been  lived  as  the  mother  of  her 
two  boys.  Thus  Sophy  and  Bobby  touched  her  very  nearly. 

"She  seems  quite  worn  out  all  of  a  sudden,  poor  child," 
said  she,  as  she  rejoined  Amaldi.  Without  apparently 
looking  at  her  son,  she  sa\v  the  quick  change  that  came  over 
his  face  when  she  said  that  Sophy  seemed  worn  out.  He 
made  the  Meccanico  sit  in  the  bow,  and  himself  steered 
the  little  Frctta  all  the  way  to  "Le  Vigne."  He  talked 
very  little  on  the  way  home,  chiefly  about  the  farm  and  the 
weather.  He  was  afraid  it  might  be  going  to  rain  to-mor 
row.  There  were  clouds  slowly  rising  behind  the  Sasso. 

"Then  you'll  have  to  put  off  your  villa-hunt  with  Mrs. 
Chesney, ' '  he  said.  He  said  this  very  naturally,  pronounc 
ing  the  name  without  the  least  self-consciousness.  The 
Marchesa  felt  that  her  task  was  going  to  be  very  difficult 
indeed.  She,  too,  lapsed  into  silence,  now  watching  the 
lovely  sky,  now  glancing  at  her  son's  dark,  nervous  hands 
as  they  turned  the  little  wheel  slightly  from  time  to  time. 
Passionate  hands  they  were.  The  Marchesa  had  been  a 
passionate  nature  herself.  She  could  feel  with  Marco  as 
well  as  for  him. 

Le  Vigne,  or  the  Castello  Amaldi,  as  it  was  sometimes 
called,  lay  on  the  Lombard  shore  of  the  Lake  not  far  from 
Angera.  It  had  been  one  of  the  old  hunting  lodges  of  the 
Amaldi,  in  more  sumptuous  days.  It  was  really  no  more  a 
caslle  than  the  Castello  di  Frino,  on  the  hills  above  the  vil 
lage  of  Ghiffa ;  though  it  had,  what  Frino  had  not,  a  mass 
ive  reconnoitring  tower  at  one  corner  of  the  quadrangle  of 
buildings  that  formed  a  court  behind  the  house  itself.  It 
made  a  delightful  summer  home,  standing  close  to  the  lake 
shore  and  surrounded  by  a  farm  of  some  two  thousand 
acres.  It  was  of  white  stucco  with  thick,  ancient  walls.  A 
terrace  along  the  front  led  by  long,  shallow  steps  to  the 
lawns  and  gardens,  which  reached  to  the  water.  Behind,  in 
the  buildings  enclosing  the  court,  were  kitchens,  laundry, 


191 

carpenter  shop,  stables,  et  cetera.  Big  arched  ways  led 
from  the  cortile  into  the  kitchen  garden  and  the  open  coun 
try  beyond. 

When  the  Marchesa  had  come  to  Le  Vigne  as  a  bride 
forty  years  ago,  she  had  regretted  that  it  did  not  lie  in  the 
mountainous  portion  of  the  Lake.  Now  she  had  grown  to 
love  this  wistful,  reedy  shore  more  than  any  other  part  of 
Lago  Maggiore. 

She  stepped  out  in  the  big  darsena  with  a  sigh  of  pleas 
ure,  and  walked  across  the  lawn,  stopping  to  put  a  spray 
of  white  oleander  in  her  belt. 

Marco  and  his  mother  dined  on  the  terrace,  at  a  little 
table  set  with  old  Lodi  ware.  There  was  a  bowl  of  white 
oleander — the  Marchesa 's  favourite  flower — in  the  centre. 
Its  fragile  blossoms  gave  off  a  perfume  strangely  heady 
and  spiritual  at  the  same  time — a  faint,  sweet  perfume  as 
of  blossomed  peach-kernels. 

The  dusk  came  on  gradually,  spangled  with  stars  and 
fireflies.  All  the  clouds  had  melted  from  the  sky.  It 
spread  above  them  like  an  endless  expanse  of  violet  smoke, 
glittering  with  vari-coloured  sparks. 

"No  rain  for  to-morrow,  caro  mio,"  said  the  Marchesa, 
as  she  and  Amaldi  sat  smoking  companionably  after  din 
ner,  each  in  a  long  willow  chair.  "I  can  go  villa-hunting 
with  your  charming  friend  to-morrow,  beyond  a  doubt. ' ' 

"Yes.    That's  good,"  said  Amaldi. 

The  Marchesa  glanced  at  him.  He  was  smoking  con 
tentedly,  with  a  very  tranquil  expression  on  his  face.  It 
was  still  light  enough  to  see  even  the  colours  of  flowers 
quite  plainly.  The  Marchesa  put  her  own  cigarette  back 
between  her  lips.  Then  she  took  it  out  and  looked  at  it, 
smiling. 

"You  haven't  noticed  my  new  splendor e,  Marco,"  she 
said,  waving  the  gold-tipped  cigarette  towards  him. 

"Eh?"  he  said,  as  though  rousing  suddenly. 

' '  These  '  gilded  luxuries, '  : '  said  his  mother,  indicating 
the  cigarette  between  her  big,  handsome  fingers. 

"Why,  Baldi!  What  swagger!"  he  laughed,  taking  in 
the  cigarette.  This  name  of  "Baldi,"  by  which  both  her 
sons  sometimes  addressed  her,  had  arisen  from  the  fact  that 
as  a  bride  she  had  arrived  in  Italy  with  a  severe  cold  in 
her  head,  and  had  pronounced  her  new  name  "Abaldi." 
Her  husband  had  begun  to  call  her  "Baldi"  for  fun,  in 


192 

the  honeymoon  days.  Later  on  the  children  had  taken  it 
up.  She  associated  it  more  with  her  boys  than  with  her 
husband,  and  liked  them  to  call  her  so.  Only  when  very 
serious  did  they  say  "Maman. " 

"Yes.  Don't  you  wonder  how  I  came  by  such  gorgeous- 
ness?"  she  now  asked. 

"  I  do  indeed.    I  thought  you  scorned  such  vanities. ' ' 

"I  do,  as  a  rule,  but  that  dear  thing  pressed  them  on  me 
so  prettily  that  I  hadn't  the  heart  to  refuse.  Mrs.  Ches- 
ney  I  mean.  She  is  a  dear  thing,  Marco. ' ' 

Her  son 's  voice  at  once  became  on  guard. 

"Yes.  I  thought  you  would  like  her,"  he  said.  "You 
know  I  told  you  so. ' ' 

"You  didn't  tell  me  half,  my  dear.  She  is  a  very  un 
usual  woman  indeed — girl,  I  feel  like  saying.  Really  she 
seems  amazingly  girlish  to  have  been  through  trach  bitter 
experiences.  That  terrible  dinner  you  told  me  of— 

"Yes.    That  does  strike  one." 

The  Marciresa  smoked  for  a  few  moments. 

"Does  she  seem  very  eprise  with  her  husband?"  she 
asked  at  last. 

"I  haven't  seen  them  together  more  than  twice — I 
couldn't  say.  I  haven't  seen  much  of  Mrs.  Chesney  her 
self,  you  know. ' ' 

"I  didn't  know,"  reflected  the  Marchesa;  but  matters 
seemed  to  her  all  the  more  serious  because  of  that  state 
ment.  If  she,  his  mother,  could  see  in  a  few  hours  the 
strong  influence  that  Sophy  had  upon  him,  and  if  this  in 
fluence  had  resulted  from  such  a  slight  acquaintance,  then 
it  was  more  necessary  than  ever  that  she  should  speak. 

She  threw  away  her  cigarette,  and  leaned  back. 

"Caro  Marco,"  she  said,  "I'm  going  to  do  a  thing  that 
I've  rarely  done.  I'm  going  to  do  it  because  I  think  I 
ought  to,  though  I  dislike  doing  it  very  much.  And  I  want 
you  to  be  indulgent  to  Baldi — eh  ?  Will  you  ? ' ' 

Now  Amaldi  was  more  than  ever  on  guard.  Something 
seemed  actually  to  click  in  his  breast.  It  was  the  lock  of  his 
heart  snapping  home.  It  is  a  way  that  some  heart-locks 
have  of  doing  at  the  least  touch. 

His  voice  was  very  gentle  and  courteous  as  he  said : 

"Dear  Baldi,  you  know  very  well  that  you  can  speak  to 
me  in  any  way  whatever  that  you  wish." 

"Aie!"  thought  the  Marchesa.     "He's  gone  under  the 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  193 

boat  like  a  sulking  lusc  (pike).  What  a  dear,  fine,  pro 
voking  boy  to  be  sure ! 

"Well,  then,  Marco,  I'll  come  to  the  point  at  once,"  she 
said  in  a  frank,  practical  voice.  "But  first  I  must  ask  you 
if  you  don 't  really  think  that  I  've  trespassed  very  little  on 
private  ground  with  you,  since  you've  been  grown?  Even 
when  your  marriage  was  in  question,  I  said  nothing  after 
giving  you  my  honest  opinion,  when  you  asked  for  it. 
Isn't  this  so?"* 

' '  Yes,  Maman ;  it  is  perfectly  true, ' '  said  Amaldi. 

This  "Maman"  fixed  the  Marchesa  in  her  opinion  that 
Marco  was  going  to  make  things  as  difficult  as  possible  for 
her.  She  was  no  longer  his  intimate  "Baldi,"  she  was  the 
revered  "Maman." 

"Ebbene,  Ga.ro,  I'm  glad  you  admit  that  so  frankly,"  she 
continued,  taking  her  courage  in  both  hands;  "because  it 
makes  me  feel  that  you  will  be  lenient  if  what  I  'm  about  to 
say  jars  on  you  very  much.  It's  this,  figlio  iwio — I  want  you 
to  be  very,  very  careful  about  your  attitude  towards  this 
lovely,  unhappy  woman.  I  see  real  danger  for  you  there, 
Marco — unless  you  are  on  your  guard  every  moment  of  the 
time  you  are  with  her.  A  woman  feels  such  things  in 
tuitively — and  intuition  is  a  very  sure  force,  no  matter 
what  sceptics  may  say  of  it.  I  want  you  to  open  your 
'mind's  eye'  wide,  my  dear  boy,  and  look  this  possibility 
squarely  in  the  face.  Will  you?" 

Amaldi  sat  perfectly  still.  The  only  sign  that  he  was 
moved  in  any  way  was  the  cigarette  which  went  out  be 
tween  his  fingers,  and  which  he  put  to  his  lips  now  and  then 
as  if  unaware  that  it  was  out.  His  mother  waited,  rather 
nervous.  Then  he  said  quietly : 

"I  was  just  trying  to  see  exactly  what  you  meant, 
Maman.  Do  you  mean  that  you  fear  I  may  compromise 
Mrs.  Chesney  by  undue  attentions?" 

The  Marchesa  felt  discouraged,  but  her  will  upheld  her. 

"Not  that  alone,  Marco,"  she  said  firmly,  "though  that 
might  be  one  of  the  consequences  of  what  I  fear  for  you. 
What  I  meant,  in  plain  language,  since  you  force  me  to  it, 
is  that  you  may  come  to  care  too  much  for  her.  There 
would  be  no  issue  to  such  a  thing,  Marco.  You  must  see 
that  for  yourself.  I  do  you  the  honour,"  she  added 
quickly,  ' '  of  supposing  that  your  feeling  for  such  a  woman 
would  be  a  serious  one. ' ' 


194  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

"Grazie,"  said  Amaldi.  His  tone  was  perfectly  respect 
ful,  but  there  was  a  crisp  note  in  it  that  hurt  his  mother. 
He  was  in  truth  deeply  indignant,  not  with  her,  but  with 
himself,  at  the  idea  that  his  love  for  Sophy  was  so  trans 
parently  evident  to  observing  eyes,  when  he  had  thought 
it  hidden  in  the  utmost  depths  of  his  being.  It  was  ex 
cruciatingly  painful  and  mortifying  to  him  that  even  his 
mother  should  touch  on  such  a  subject. 

The  Marchesa,  in  the  meanwhile,  was  thinking  very  hard 
indeed.  She  was  years  in  advance  of  her  day  in  many 
respects.  For  instance,  she  believed  that  a  serious  union 
between  a  man  and  woman  devotedly  loving  each  other, 
and  determined  to  be  true  to  that  love,  is  as  sacred  and 
worthy  a  thing,  as  really  and  wholly  a  "marriage,"  as  any 
union  made  by  priest  or  law.  The  law  of  one 's  highest  be 
ing  she  considered  the  highest  law  of  all.  To  the  marriage 
of  true  hearts  and  bodies,  as  well  as  that  of  true  minds, 
she  would  not  admit  impediment.  But — she  realised  that 
for  the  man  and  woman  of  her  day  to  enter  upon  such  a 
marriage  was  also  to  enter  upon  a  Via  Crucis.  The  massive, 
sometimes  crushing,  weight  of  such  a  yoke  was  not  to  be 
accepted  in  any  light,  joyous  spirit  of  newly  kindled  pas 
sion.  Over  the  gateway  of  that  stern  temple  of  love  was 
written  the  implacable,  well-nigh  impossible  mandate  of 
the  Delphian  Oracle,  "Know  thyself." 

Moreover,  in  her  view  of  the  question,  the  man  and 
woman  who  would  enter  on  such  an  engagement  must  be 
quite  free  from  certain  ties — pre-eminently  the  tie  binding 
a  mother  to  her  children.  The  Marchesa  admitted  the  for 
saking  of  all  in  the  world  for  a  great  love — except  the  child 
that  a  woman  had  borne  into  the  world. 

Marco,  despite  his  luckless  marriage,  from  which  as  an 
Italian  he  could  not  with  dignity  escape — (both  he  and  she 
scorned  the  idea  of  his  becoming  naturalised  in  another 
country  in  order  to  obtain  a  divorce  there) — Marco  she 
considered  free  to  form  a  new  and  serious  relationship  if 
he  so  desired.  Therefore,  it  was  not  the  question  of  the 
possible  irregularity  of  his  future  relations  with  Sophy 
that  dismayed  her;  it  was  that  she  did  not  consider  Sophy 
free.  She  had  her  son.  Never  would  she  receive  as  Marco 's 
wife  the  woman  who  had  deserted  her  child  for  him.  But 
then,  merely  glimpsing  Sophy  as  she  had  done,  she  felt  in 
stinctively  that  she  was  incapable  of  such  an  act. 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  195 

Remained  then  only  the  possibility  of  a  dark  tragedy  of 
unavailing  love,  and  the  odious  quagmire  of  scandal. 

And  thinking  as  she  did,  and  knowing  that  her  son  was 
well  aware  of  her  opinions,  this  "Grazie"  ("Thanks")  of 
Marco's  hurt  her  deeply.  It  seemed  to  say:  "I  am  glad 
that  at  least  you  do  me  that  much  justice." 

It  was  she,  however,  who  broke  the  silence  that  followed. 

"I  shall  not  allude  to  this  subject  again,"  she  said,  ris 
ing.  "This  once  I  felt  that  I  had  to  speak — no  matter  how 
much  I  hurt  or  offended  you — only  this  once — 

"Prego,  prego,  Maman!"  he  murmured  in  a  colourless 
voice. 

"Yes,  that  I  had  to  do,"  continued  his  mother  firmly; 
"for,  as  I  said,  there  is  no  issue.  Mrs.  Chesney  has  her 
son.  Should  you  ever  care  for  her — should  she  ever  care 
for  you — her  son  stands  between  you.  If  she  were  to 
desert  her  boy  for  you — she  would  not  deserve  your  love. 
If  you  wanted  her  to  desert  him — you  would  not  deserve 
hers " 

"Maman!  Te  ne  scongiuro!"  cried  Amaldi,  springing 
to  his  feet.  She  could  see  his  face  white  as  silver  in  the 
heavy  dusk.  His  brows  made  a  straight  line  across  it. 

"I  have  finished,  my  son,"  she  said,  with  dignity.  "You 
will  never  hear  me  allude  to  this  again." 

And  she  left  him. 


XXXIII 

THE  finding  of  a  suitable  villa  for  Sophy  proved  to  be 
quite  an  undertaking.  Three  days  did  the  kindly  Marchesa 
devote  to  helping  her  in  this  quest.  And  as  they  chugged 
about  the  Lake  in  the  little  Fretta,  Sophy  grew  more  and 
more  impressed  with  the  hideousness  of  the  houses  that 
man  had  thrust  upon  this  lovely  nature.  She  had  dreamed 
of  columns — white  columns  rising  from  groves  of  lemon 
and  orange,  reflected  in  pale  blue  water.  The  reality  was 
a  noticeable  lack  of  these  trees  and  a  collection  of  ugly 
boxes,  now  bristling  with  ginger-bread  towers,  gilded, 
pricked  out,  machicolated,  decorated  in  red  and  blue,  now 
roofed  and  verandahed  in  clumsy  imitation  of  Swiss  cha 
lets,  the  stucco  walls  painted  to  represent  yellow  wood. 
Sometimes  these  houses  would  be  ornamented  with  gaudy 


196  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

flowers  like  a  frieze  of  chintz;  sometimes  they  would  wrig 
gle  all  over  with  the  results  of  modern  graffito  work. 
Only  a  few  villas,  here  and  there,  were  simple  and  at 
tractive  in  architecture — and  these  were  always  old  build 
ings,  not  to  be  rented. 

Sophy  was  in  despair.  She  thought  she  had  better  re 
main  at  the  Hotel  Bellevue  or  slip  over  to  the  Eden  Hotel 
in  Pallanza.  But  the  Marchesa  never  gave  up  an  idea  once 
she  had  determined  to  accomplish  it.  So,  finally,  they 
found  in  the  ' '  Villa  Bianca, ' '  near  Ghiff a,  what  even  Sophy 
admitted  was  the  very  thing. 

It  took  her  two  weeks  to  get  settled — to  have  the  walls 
whitewashed,  and  to  cover  the  frightful  furniture  with 
slips  of  chintz.  She  wras  so  busy  over  this  that  she  had  no 
time  to  feel  lonely,  though  Amaldi  and  his  mother  came  to 
see  her  only  once  during  that  period.  The  letters  from 
Anne  Harding  were  very  encouraging.  Bobby  looked  like 
a  bit  of  brown  bisque  and  had  already  gained  in  weight. 
It  was  wonderful  after  the  day 's  bustle  to  sit  on  the  broad, 
flagged  terrace  that  overlooked  the  Lake.  Two  huge 
cypresses  towered  on  either  side.  At  the  foot  of  the 
priestly  trees  two  oleanders  in  full  bloom  spread  their 
pinky  skirts,  like  court  ladies  kneeling  in  perfumed  hu 
mility  before  stern  spiritual  directors.  Their  heady  fra 
grance  streamed  through  the  night,  stirring  vague  desires 
and  regrets.  The  stars  swung  low,  plaques  of  quick-gold. 
The  grim  Stone  of  Iron  across  the  lake  had  changed  to 
tourmaline — reddish  at  one  end,  dusky  violet  at  the  other, 
as  the  glow  from  the  lime-kiln  at  Chaldee  lit  it  to  the  east 
and  the  soft  starlight  to  the  west.  Yes,  this,  too,  was  Italy. 
And  there  came  to  her  a  strange,  elusive  sense  as  of  heart 
break  for  sorrows  long  forgotten  when  a  nightingale  began 
its  desperate,  sweet  cry  of  passion  forever  unassuaged. 
She  had  thought  that  in  England  she  had  first  heard  the 
nightingale.  It  was  not  so.  This  was  the  true  flame  of 
song;  that  had  been  but  the  flame's  shadow.  In  ecstatic 
staves  the  tiny  soul  flung  out  its  supernal  melody,  as  though 
weaving  a  poem  in  music — sapphics  of  sound — stanzas  end 
ing  each  time  with  a  new  melodic  phrase — the  cry  of  a 
celestial  Improvisatrice,  singing  against  the  morning  stars. 
It  brought  the  sense  of  infinity — as  though  from  everlast 
ing  to  everlasting  that  marvellous  ritornello  might  go 
pealing  on.  .  .  . 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  197 

One  morning  Luigi,  the  little  Milanese  butler,  brought 
her  Amaldi  's  card. 

She  ran  down  to  greet  him,  in  her  white  linen  skirt  and 
blouse,  forgetting  to  take  out  the  oleander  flower  that 
Bobby  had  stuck  over  her  ear  as  they  played  together  that 
morning  on  the  terrace.  The  pink  flower  with  its  dark, 
spiky  leaves,  thus  nestled  against  her  shaded  hair,  gave  her 
a  careless,  festival  look  that  was  delightfully  new  to 
Amaldi.  It  was  hard  to  keep  his  eyes  steady  under  the 
look  of  frank  pleasure  with  which  she  met  him.  He  told 
her  that  his  mother  had  sent  the  Fretta  to  fetch  her  to 
Le  Vigne  for  luncheon  if  she  cared  to  come. 

* '  I  should  love  to ! "  she  cried.  "  I  '11  just  get  a  hat  and  a 
sunshade.  I  won't  keep  you  a  minute." 

' '  My  mother  begged  that  you  would  bring  Bobby  if  you 
wished  to,"  said  Amaldi  as  she  was  rushing  off.  But  she 
called  back  over  her  shoulder: 

"Thanks!  No.  ...  I'm  afraid  he  might  get  tired  and 
fret." 

The  morning  was  wonderful — too  bright  and  unveiled 
for  an  artist's  pleasure,  but  not  for  that  of  mere  human 
beings  with  youth  and  joy  in  their  blood.  The  Tramontana 
was  still  blowing.  The  whole  lake  was  a-flutter  with  it. 
The  Fretta  sped  onward  between  jets  of  foam.  Peder,  the 
young  meccanico,  grinned  with  the  wavelets,  as  an  oc 
casional  spray-shower  flew  past  him  and  sprinkled  the 
sciori  further  aft. 

The  Marchesa  was  waiting  for  them  on  the  terrace  of  Le 
Vigne.  She  gave  Sophy  a  little  nosegay  of  white  oleander 
and  stephanotis,  and  kissed  her  cheek  in  greeting.  She 
looked  very  imposing  in  her  straight  robe  of  embroidered 
white  muslin. 

Sophy  was  charmed  with  the  outer  view  of  Le  Vigne. 
Its  mellow,  white  walls,  so  severely  simple,  and  the  fluted 
edge  of  its  red-tiled  roof  gave  her  a  relieved  pleasure  after 
her  own  orange-brown  "chalet."  The  entrance  hall  was 
big  and  plain,  with  mosaic  under  foot,  and  great  beams 
overhead,  painted  in  between  like  the  wings  of  night-moths. 

They  lunched  on  the  western  terrace  under  a  pergola  of 
star-jessamine.  Sophy  felt  strangely  and  rather  unquietly 
happy — as  if  something  were  going  to  happen.  And  she 
was  very  hungry.  It  was  such  fun  to  eat  from  a  plate 
dappled  with  little  sun-flecks.  Every  one  had  silvery  re- 


198 

flections  from  the  white  tablecloth  playing  over  their  faces. 
It  made  Amaldi  look  pale  and  strange  somehow. 

Sophy  thought  that  after  luncheon  she  would  be  taken  to 
see  the  farm  and  gardens,  but  the  Marchesa  said  that  she 
must  not  go  out  into  the  sun  directly  after  eating.  In 
stead,  they  went  into  the  big,  cool  Salotto,  and  the  Marchesa 
taught  her  a  game  of  double  patience.  While  they  were 
doing  this,  Amaldi  strolled  in  with  his  pipe.  It  seemed  odd 
to  Sophy  to  see  him.  with  a  pipe.  It  didn't  suit  him  some 
how. 

The  Marchesa  sent  Amaldi  off  to  order  the  pony-carriage. 
She  was  going  to  drive  Sophy  over  the  Tenuta  herself. 
As  he  went,  she  called  after  him: 

"Is  your  study  in  ordinef  I  want  to  show  Mrs.  Chesney 
the  view  from  the  Tower  before  we  start." 

"I'll  send  Peder  up  to  report,"  said  Amaldi. 

His  ' '  study ' '  was  in  the  top  of  the  square  tower.  It  was 
lined  with  books  and  maps,  and  pierced  by  four  windows. 
A  heavy  quattro  cento  table  covered  with  papers  ran  across 
one  side,  and  on  the  other  was  a  grand  piano.  Sophy's 
eyes  went  from  this  to  the  papers  on  the  table,  many  of 
which  were  manuscript  music. 

"I  didn't  know  that  the  Marchese  composed  music,"  she 
said,  "though  I've  heard  of  course  what  a  wonderful  mu 
sician  he  is." 

"Marco  is  even  greater  as  a  composer  than  as  a  mu 
sician,  ' '  replied  his  mother,  pride  in  her  voice.  ' '  The  world 
will  hear  of  him  some  day.  But  he's  such  a  student  of 
other  things  also,  that  it  rather  hampers  him,  I  think. 
Young  as  he  is,  he's  already  one  of  the  authorities  on  the 
history  of  the  Risorgimento — and  no  one  in  Italy  knows 
more  than  he  about  our  architecture  and  art.  He  has  pre 
dicted  a  rising  of  Iconoclasts  within  a  few  years — haters  of 
beauty — so  he's  preparing  for  them,  in  his  own  way.  He 
has  very  original  ideas." 

Then  she  broke  off  suddenly,  extremely  vexed  at  her  own 
garrulity  on  this  subject.  It  was  certainly  far  from  her 
wish  to  interest  this  eager-eyed  girl  in  the  attainments  of 
Marco. 

"Che  ivribecillc!"  she  said  within  herself,  as  she  led  the 
way  from  the  big  table,  where  Sophy  was  gazing  with  re 
spectful  admiration  at  some  beautiful  architectural  designs 
in  aquarelle. 


199 

"Did  the  Marchese  make  those  lovely  drawings?"  she 
asked,  as  she  followed  his  mother  to  one  of  the  great  win 
dows. 

"Yes — he  draws  quite  nicely,  I  believe,"  replied  the 
Marchesa  with  some  primness. 

Sophy  felt  the  change  in  her  manner,  but  only  thought 
that  she  had  withdrawn  her  interest  from  Amaldi's  work 
to  the  marvellous  view  that  spread  below  them — all  the 
Lombard  plain  out-rolled  like  the  fecund  floor  of  a  vast 
temple  to  Ceres,  whose  roof  was  the  blue  dome  above.  And 
in  the  apex  of  this  immense  Rotonda  the  sun's  disk  seemed 
the  opening  into  further  heavens  of  gold. 

As  they  re-crossed  the  room  on  their  way  back,  Sophy's 
attention  was  caught  by  the  photograph  of  a  blond  youth, 
strikingly  like  the  Marchesa. 

''Oh — is  that  your  other  son,  Marchesa?"  she  asked. 
''What  a  handsome  boy  and  so  like  you!" 

"Grazie  mille,"  said  the  Marchesa,  laughing.  "Yes, 
that  is  Nano — my  younger  son  Giovanni.  He  is  a  good- 
looking  baloss  (scamp)  as  you  so  kindly  observed,  my  dear. 
Much  better  looking  than  Marco — but  Marco  is  our  strong 
one.  He  has  more  character  in  his  little  finger  than  that 
lovable  imp " 

Again  she  broke  off,  biting  her  lip  severely  this  time. 
\Arhat  ailed  her?  It  was  like  some  perverse  obsession — this 
constant  harping  of  hers  on  Marco 's  fine  qualities. 

"Come,  my  dear,"  she  said.  "If  we  dawdle,  the  teams 
will  be  stabled — I  want  you  to  see  our  white  oxen  in  the 
late  sunlight." 

Sophy  never  forgot  her  first  sight  of  the  big  white  oxen, 
four  to  a  plough,  sturdily  plodding  against  the  westering 
sun.  Their  white  hides  in  shadow  were  pearly  blue ;  where 
the  sunlight  glanced  along  their  backs  they  seemed  out 
lined  with  silver  fire.  Their  great  horns  gleamed  like  agate. 
Their  ears,  suffused  with  the  sun,  showed  a  lining  of  dusk- 
rose.  Semi-divine  creatures  they  looked  as  they  moved 
with  calm,  majestic  patience  against  the  background  of 
earth  and  sky — gleaming  offspring  of  Europa's  Olympian 
Bull,  by  Hathor,  goddess-cow  of  Egypt.  .  .  . 

It  was  nearly  six  o'clock  when  Carletto  reported  that 
the  Fretta  was  awaiting  them. 

The  Marchesa  had  persuaded  Sophy  to  stop  for  tea  and 
now  she  made  her  accept  the  loan  of  a  warm  cloak.  It 


200  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

could  be  very  chilly  on  the  Lake  at  this  hour,  she  said,  even 
in  midsummer.  Carletto  had  put  in  the  launch  a  basket 
of  delicate  golden  plums  called  "nespole  del  Giappone," 
which  cannot  be  exported.  The  Marchesa  came  with  them 
to  the  darsena.  The  Fretta  lay  quaint  as  an  orchid  in  the 
shadow,  all  red  cushions  and  glowing  fruit,  with  the  Ital 
ian  flag  at  her  stern,  and  the  pennon  of  the  Amaldi  at  her 
prow. 

"Where  is  Peder?"  asked  the  Marchesa  rather  sharply, 
as  Amaldi  got  in  and  held  out  his  hand  to  assist  Sophy. 
He  looked  up  at  his  mother. 

"I  promised  Peder  last  week  that  he  should  go  to  see 
his  people  at  Belgirate  this  afternoon,"  he  said  composedly. 
"I  lent  him  the  dinghey  after  luncheon.  But  I  am  an  ex 
cellent  meccanico.  Mrs.  Chesney  need  not  feel  nervous." 

What  was  there  to  say?  The  Marchesa  at  least  could 
think  of  nothing. 

She  stood  in  silence,  while  Marco  pushed  off  with  one  of 
the  oars  kept  in  the  launch  in  case  of  the  engine's  failing. 

Sophy  looked  up,  smiling.  She  waved  her  hand,  kissed  it 
to  the  Marchesa  as  the  Fretta  slowly  glided  out  of  the 
darsena  into  the  open  lake. 

' '  Thanks !  A  thousand  thanks ! ' '  she  called  back,  her 
voice  sounding  strangely  clear  and  sweet  over  the  water. 
' '  I  shall  never  forget  my  first  day  at  Le  Vigne. ' ' 

"What  absurdly  innocent  eyes  she  has,"  thought  the 
Marchesa  irritably.  "A  married  woman  has  no  business 
having  such  innocent  eyes  as  all  that!" 

But  she  waved  her  hand  in  reply,  and  called,  "~Buon 
Viaggio!" 

Then  she  went  back  to  the  terrace,  and  sat  watching  the 
Fretta  as  long  as  it  was  in  sight.  The  soft  afterglow  en 
gulfed  it  at  last.  They  were  there,  in  the  lovely  twilight 
alone  together — those  two — who  of  all  the  world  should  be 
farthest  apart.  The  Marchesa  felt  very  angry  with  Marco, 
with  herself,  with  poor  Sophy,  with  Fate.  She  did  not 

know  which  she  was  most  angry  with Yes,  perhaps 

with  Marco.  .  .  . 

XXXIV 

THE  Fretta  rushed  straight  towards  the  sunset,  like  some 
little  water-creature  magnetised  by  light.     On  either  side 


201 

of  the  wheel,  opposite  each  other,  Sophy  and  Amaldi  sat 
gazing  at  the  gorgeous,  cloud-suffused  sky.  They  had  both 
thrown  aside  their  hats.  His  face  had  a  new,  boyish  look 
with  his  hair  blown  back  by  the  wind.  It  was  still  so  warm 
in  the  mellow  glow  from  the  sunset,  that  he  had  also  taken 
off  his  coat.  Sophy  liked  his  slight  figure  freed  of  the 
dark-blue  coat.  It,  too,  looked  boyish  somehow.  This 
pleased  her.  Sometimes  his  grave  stillness  almost  made  her 
nervous.  There  seemed  to  be  so  much  at  work  under  the 
smooth  surface.  She  thought  that  he  was  rather  like  a 
still,  dark,  mountain  pool.  One  saw  reflections  so  clearly — 
but  never  what  was  really  in  the  depths  of  the  pool. 

But  now  some  quickening  change  had  come  over  him 
and  his  face  looked  eager,  joyous — the  face  of  one  who 
could  be  a  delightful  companion.  His  eyes  seemed  to  have 
dismissed  more  serious  thoughts. 

The  sun,  with  disk  hidden  behind  a  mass  of  purple  cloud, 
sent  forth  vast  spokes  of  light  on  every  side ;  and  this  im 
mense,  fiery  wheel,  whose  axle  was  the  hidden  sun,  whose 
tyre  the  extreme  round  of  pale  blue  air,  made  Sophy  cry 
out: 

" There  'tarry  the  wheels  of  his  chariot'!  Apollo's  re 
vealing  himself  to  me  because  I  'm  a  good  Pagan ! ' ' 

"Are  you  a  'good  Pagan'?"  said  Amaldi,  smiling. 
"Then  you  shouldn't  have  dealings  with  the  priesthood 
that  have  stolen  his  rays  to  set  round  the  vessel  sacred  to 
another  god." 

She  shook  her  head  at  him,  smiling,  too. 

"No,  no.  I  won't  let  you  quarrel  with  me  to-day.  It 
has  all  been  too  beautiful. ' ' 

"I  couldn't  quarrel  with  you,"  he  said,  "even  if  you  let 
me — even  if  you  insisted  on  keeping  a  pet  priest.  Or,  yes 
—then  I  might  be  tempted  to  'quarrel' — though  I'd  have 
no  right  to." 

"Friendship  gives  rights.  We  agreed  to  be  friends  long 
ago — in  England,"  answered  Sophy  happily. 

Then  she  looked  again  at  the  golden  wrheel  that  filled  the 
west. 

: '  The  clouds  are  beautiful — but  do  you  think  they  mean 
rain  ? ' '  she  asked  rather  anxiously. 

"So  our  peasants  say,"  replied  Amaldi.    "They  have  a 
rhyme  that  goes:    'Sol  che  varda  in  dree,  Acqua  ai  pe'- 
*A  sun  that  peeps  backward,  water  over  the  feet.'  : 


202  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

"Oh,  I  love  this  dialect.  Would  it  be  very  hard  to 
learn?" 

"But  you  should  learn  Italian,  not  dialect,"  he  said, 
smiling. 

"I  should  like  to  know  both.  I'd  love  to  talk  to  the  peo 
ple  in  their  own  language.  Is  that  very  hard  to  do  ?  Steer 
ing,  I  mean.  May  I  try?" 

He  showed  her  how  the  wheel  worked,  indicating  a  white 
house  far  away  as  a  point  for  her  to  steer  by. 

"Oh,  how  nice!  How  well  she  answers — like  a  little 
water-horse  to  a  bridle ! ' ' 

She  was  charmed  to  feel  how  the  Frctta  glided  this  way 
or  that  at  the  lightest  touch.  They  had  now  reached  a 
part  of  the  Lake,  near  Santa  Catterina,  where  at  this  hour 
there  is  no  faintest  stir  of  air.  The  water  spread  beneath 
them  so  still,  so  clear,  that  it  was  almost  as  if  they  were 
rushing  through  a  golden  vacuum.  Only  the  arrowy  silver 
of  the  Frctta 's  bow- waves  showed  that  the  element  through 
which  they  fled  was  water  and  not  air. 

Suddenly  the  Intragnola — the  land  breeze  that  blows 
from  shore  near  Intra — met  them  full.  The  sky  was  fast 
fading. 

"Hadn't  you  better  let  me  get  you  that  cloak?"  said 
Amaldi.  As  she  turned  to  let  him  put  his  mother's  cloak 
about  her  shoulders,  his  heart  flashed  hot  on  a  sudden. 
Just  so  might  he  be  folding  a  wrap  of  his  mother's  about 
her — if  she  were  his  wife.  It  seemed  subtly,  wildly  sweet 
to  him  to  see  her  nestling  there  in  that  cloak  so  intimately 
associated  with  his  mother — with  his  daily,  familiar  life. 

"She  is  so  sweet — your  mother,"  said  Sophy,  looking 
down  at  the  warm  folds.  "It  was  dear  of  her  to  think  of 
lending  me  this  cloak.  I  almost  envy  you  your  mother." 

"And — yours?"  asked  Amaldi  softly. 

"She  died  when  I  was  a  young  girl." 

"That  is  very  sad,"  said  Amaldi,  but  the  tone  of  his 
voice  was  better  than  the  most  florid  words  of  sympathy. 

All  at  once  Sophy  started.  She  had  given  him  back  the 
steering-wheel  some  time  ago.  She  clasped  her  hands 
under  the  folds  of  the  grey  cloak. 

"Marchese!  Your  dinner!  How  will  you  get  your  din 
ner!"  she  cried  regretfully.  "I  am  so  selfish — I  had  for 
gotten  all  about  your  dinner!  There  will  be  nothing — 
nothing  at  all  for  you  to  eat  at — at  my  villa.  I  told  Luigi 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  203 

not  to  order  dinner — just  to  have  some  milk  and  bread 
and  fruit  for  me." 

Amaldi  reassured  her,  smiling. 

' '  There  are  dozens  of  places  where  I  can  dine  capitally, ' ' 
he  said.  "The  'Isola  Pescatori' — just  ahead  of  us  to  the 
left  there — that  is  a  delightful  place  to  dine.  You  must 

go  there  with  us — Baldi  and  me — some  time That  is, 

if  you'd  care  to " 

"Oh,  I  should — of  course.  But  I  can't  think  of  any 
thing  now  but  that  you'll  be  hours  late  for  your  dinner. 
It's  so  far  yet  to  Ghiffa." 

"We  shall  be  there  in  half  an  hour — easily,"  he  con 
soled  her.  He  glanced  at  his  watch.  "It's  not  yet  half- 
past  seven." 

But  Sophy  felt  very  worried.  She  was  essentially  the 
old-fashioned  woman  where  the  regularity  of  masculine 
meals  was  concerned.  In  regard  to  food,  men  impressed 
her  as  machines  that  would  run  down  or  collapse  alto 
gether  unless  stoked,  so  to  speak,  at  exact  intervals.  Women 
were  flightier,  more  happy-go-lucky  creatures,  when  the 
solemnities  of  eating  were  in  question.  She  had  been  thor 
oughly  grounded  in  this  conception  of  the  matter  by  her 
husband.  Amaldi  guessed  as  much. 

"My  dear  lady,  if  only  you  could  know  how  often  I 
make  a  meal  off  of  rye  bread  and  cheese,  when  I'm  out  for 
a  day's  sailing,"  he  said.  "Really  my  dinner  hasn't  the 
gigantic  importance  for  me  that  your  kindness  imagines." 

He  spoke  rather  stilted  English  sometimes  when  he  was 
serious  as  now,  but  Sophy  loved  it,  because  he  was  trying 
to  make  her  feel  less  self -reproachful. 

"  It 's  very,  very  good  of  you,  Marchese,  to  want  to  make 
me  feel  less  dreadfully  selfish,"  she  now  said.  "But" — 
her  tone  was  mournful — "these  hours  on  the  water  have 
made  me  dreadfully  hungry — so  I  can  imagine  what  you 
are  feeling!" 

Amaldi  laughed.  At  the  same  instant  he  had  a  veritable 
inspiration.  Her  remark  in  reference  to  the  servants 
showed  him  how  far  she  was  from  any  conventional  prud 
eries. 

"I'll  tell  you  what  we  can  do — if  you  approve,"  he  said. 
"The  Isola  Pescatori  is  just  over  there  to  our  left.  Do  you 
see  1  Where  the  lights  cluster  in  a  little  bunch  there  ?  We 
could  land  there  and  have  an  excellent  dinner." 


204.  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

"Oh,  what  fun!  I  should  love  it!"  she  cried,  without  an 
instant's  hesitation. 

"Benone!  Benissimo!"  he  said,  lapsing  into  Italian  as 
he  always  did  when  excited  or  deeply  moved. 

It  was  now  after  eight.  The  purplish  dusk  was  velvet 
overhead,  and  silken  smooth  below.  Stresa  to  the  left,  and 
Pallanza  far  away  to  the  northeast,  fretted  the  twilight 
with  points  of  orange.  Between  the  scudding  clouds  stars 
flitted  in  and  out  like  fireflies.  There  was  the  soft,  orange 
glow  from  a  rising  moon  behind  the  Sasso  di  Ferro.  Its 
huge  crouching  bulk  seemed  steaming  with  phosphorus. 

Now  they  were  under  the  lee  of  the  little  island.  Sophy 
saw  the  clustered  houses  jutting  above  her,  and  a  wide  ter 
race,  brightly  lighted,  under  its  pergola  of  grape-vines. 
People  were  eating  there  at  little  tables.  She  could  see 
their  heads  above  the  wall.  They  had  dined  already,  for  it 
was  fruit  and  nuts  that  they  were  lifting  to  their  mouths. 
It  seemed  droll  to  see  these  greedy  heads  peeping  above 
the  terrace. 

They  got  out  on  the  rough,  stone  quay,  and  climbing  a 
stairway  found  themselves  on  the  terrace.  It  was  very 
gay,  with  electric  lights  hung  from  the  lattice  of  the  per 
gola.  Half  the  terrace  was  uncovered.  Sophy  hoped  that 
they  would  sit  at  one  of  the  tables  out  there  under  the 
violet-blue,  star-freckled  sky.  The  Padrone  came  forward, 
followed  by  one  of  his  daughters.  He  was  a  much  travelled 
man — had  been  a  head  waiter  in  Vienna,  London,  New 
York.  The  daughter  had  a  sweet,  long,  pensive  face  under 
a  big  black  pompadour. 

He  greeted  Amaldi  with  respectful  effusion.  How  well 
the  Marchese  looked !  He  had  not  seen  the  Marchese  for 
some  years,  but  truly  the  Marchese  seemed  to  grow 
younger.  And  was  this  the  Marchese 's  Signora  Marchesa  ? 
He  had  the  honour  to  felicitate — 

"Babbo!  Babbo!"  whispered  the  daughter.  She  had 
caught  hold  of  her  parent's  coat.  She  gave  it  two  agitated 
but  peremptory  jerks  as  she  spoke.  Her  "Babbo"  had 
been  so  long  away  from  home  that  he  did  not  realise  that 
the  young  Marchese 's  "Signora"  was  most  unlikely  to  be 
writh  him.  The  Padrone  retreated  backwards,  saying, 
"Prego!  Prego!"  confusedly. 

They  chose  a  table  close  to  the  edge  of  the  terrace,  near 
a  big  terra-cotta  vase  filled  with  scarlet  geraniums.  The 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  205 

blood-red  blossoms,  gleaming  with  electric  light,  stood  out 
against  the  violet  dusk.  All  Italy  was  in  these  flowers 
burning  against  the  night  sky. 

The  meal  that  followed  was  veiled  with  poetry  for  them 
both.  For  Amaldi  because  he  loved  her;  for  Sophy  be 
cause  she  loved  Italy.  They  were  also  very  hungry,  and  it 
is  odd  how  it  increases  sympathy  for  two  young  and  hungry 
people  to  eat  together.  Sophy  felt  that  she  had  known 
Amaldi  a  long  time  when  they  rose  from  the  little  iron 
table  on  the  terrace  of  Isola  Pescatori. 

They  went  for  a  stroll  through  the  crooked  streets.  As 
they  passed  the  Village  Church — Sophy  hesitated,  then 
entered.  He  followed  and  they  stood  side  by  side,  glancing 
about  them.  Three  peasant  women  and  a  man  were  kneel 
ing  on  the  dark  benches.  The  women  glanced  up  at  the 
forestieri,  frankly  curious ;  only  the  man  kept  his  anxious, 
faded  blue  eyes  on  the  image  of  the  Virgin,  that,  life- 
sized  and  brightly  tinted,  held  out  compassionate  hands 
towards  the  suppliant.  His  lips  moved  rapidly,  without 
ceasing.  Sophy  imagined  that  he  was  pleading  for  the 
life  of  some  one  dear  to  him — a  little  child  maybe.  She 
just  touched  Amaldi 's  arm,  and  they  went  out  again. 

"I'm  afraid  it  jarred  on  you — my  going  in  there,"  she 
said  softly,  looking  up  into  his  face  in  the  gloom  of  the 
narrow  street.  "But  the  places  where  the  poor  worship 
always  draw  me — they  seem  so  real — I  can't  explain — but 
they  move  me — deeply. ' ' 

"I  understand,"  said  Amaldi.    "It  is  so  with  me,  too." 

"But  I  thought " 

She  broke  off. 

"The  faith  of  the  simple-hearted  is  always  moving,"  he 
said.  "It  isn't  the  faith  of  the  people  I  question.  It  is 
the  good  faith  of  the  Roman  Catholic  Church  towards  the 
people." 

"I  see,"  Sophy  said  thoughtfully.  Then  she  turned  to 
him  again. 

"You  are  so  much  more  serious  about  it  than  the  other 
Italians  I've  known,  who  were  anti-clerical.  They  seemed 
just  to  shrug  their  shoulders  over  it — took  it  half  laugh 
ingly." 

"A  man  shouldn't  take  it  with  a  shrug  or  half  laugh 
ingly  that  the  women  of  his  country  are  under  the  thumb 
of  a  hierarchy,"  said  Amaldi  with  some  vehemence. 


206 

"There  is  a  great  hour  coming  for  women,  all  over  the 
world — yet  a  true  Italian  can't  wish  this  for  his  country 
women,  as  long  as  their  fuller  power  would  be  just  another 
weapon  in  the  hands  of  priests." 

"You  look  far  ahead,  Marchese.  Your  mother  told  me 
to-day  of  another  movement  that  you  foresaw.  Something 
about  'Iconoclasts.'  J 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "lands  that  have  been  saturated  with 
beauty  as  Italy  has  must  precipitate  some  reactionary 
movement  sooner  or  later.  First  we  have  the  mere  inertia 
of  saturation — the  numbness  to  beauty — the  incapacity  to 
produce  or  even  appreciate  it.  Next  will  come  the  positive 
reaction — the  rise  of  the  Image-Breakers.  What  queer 
name  they  will  call  themselves  by  I  can't  divine — but  I  can 
forefeel  their  rising. ' ' 

Sophy  walked  on  in  silence  for  a  moment,  then  she  said : 

"It  must  be  wonderful  to  have  such  a  country  as  Italy 
for  your  birthright,  and  to  love  it  as  much  as  you  do." 

He  glanced  at  her  with  a  changed  look. 

"Yes — I  love  it,"  he  said.  But  he  was  thinking  how 
much  more  than  any  country  he  loved  her. 

"When  they  left,  Signorina  Rosalia  accompanied  them 
down  to  the  little  landing.  The  engine  of  the  Fretta  took 
up  its  busy  hum  again.  Swiftly  they  backed  away  from 
Isola  Pescatori,  and  spun  round  towards  Pallanza. 

"Buona  sera,  Signora!  Buona  sera,  Signer  Marchese!" 
called  the  Padrone's  daughter  in  her  high,  fluting  voice. 
She  stood  on  the  little  quay  in  the  moonlight  till  they  were 
some  distance  out  upon  the  lake.  " Gli  amanti — gll 
amanti,"  she  was  thinking  sentimentally.  She  stood  there 
thrilled  with  the  romance  that  she  felt  rushing  away  from 
her  into  the  ecstatic  moonlight.  .  .  . 

And  out  there  in  the  soft  magnificence  of  the  summer 
night  Sophy  and  Amaldi  sat  silent,  with  only  the  little 
steering  wheel  between  them.  They  felt  the  sense  of  ex 
hilaration  that  comes  from  being  close  to  the  prow  of  a 
boat  speeding  low  on  the  water:  they  were  so  intimately 
breast  to  breast  with  the  vastness  of  air  and  lake.  Stresa 
lay  behind  them,  a  tangle  of  yellow  sparks.  The  Barro- 
mean  Islands  brooded  sleeping  on  their  shadows.  Pallanza 
was  a  faint  spangle  to  the  left.  Far  away  in  front,  towards 
Switzerland,  what  seemed  a  silvery  mist  shaped  like  moun- 
.tains,  floated  against  the  pearl  dust  of  the  sky. 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  207 

Sophy  leaned  towards  him  suddenly.  Her  eyes  looked 
dark  and  mysterious  under  her  white,  moonlit  brow. 

' '  Need  we  go  quite  so  fast  ? ' '  she  said.  ' '  It  seems  a  pity 
to  hurry  through  such  beauty." 

Her  obvious  faith  in  him  gave  him  joy  and  pain  at  the 
same  time.  If  she  had  felt  one  hundredth  part  for  him 
what  he  felt  for  her,  she  could  not  have  suggested  so  simply 
a  thing  that  meant  their  being  longer  together.  He  set  the 
engine  to  a  slower  speed.  They  had  passed  Pallanza,  and 
were  running  near  enough  the  shore  to  see  the  ghostly 
loveliness  of  white  roses  and  oleanders  pouring  above  the 
walls  of  villa  gardens.  "Where  the  shore  was  wild  and  over 
grown,  tangles  of  honeysuckle  showered  them  with  volup 
tuous  fragrance.  Above,  on  the  hills,  the  little  villages 
shone  in  the  moonlight,  like  handfuls  of  scattered  mica. 

Now  they  had  passed  Intra.  The  dark  foliage  of  the 
Villa  Bianca  came  into  view.  They  could  see  the  colon 
nade  of  its  old  eucalyptus  trees,  above  the  retaining-wall 
of  granite. 

"Oh,  why  should  such  lovely  hours  have  to  end — when 
they  need  not,"  sighed  Sophy.  "I  hate  convention  when  it 
lops  off  such  hours  as  these  like  a  grudging  old  Procrustes. 
Don't  you  hate  the  sheer  tyranny  of  convention,  Mar- 
chese?" 

"Indeed — yes,"  said  Amaldi. 

Glancing  back  at  their  evening  together,  as  he  spoke, 
Sophy  thought  that  he  had  been  unusually  taciturn.  He 
was  not  a  talkative  man,  but  it  really  seemed  to  her,  now 
that  she  thought  of  it,  that  he  had  been  almost  oddly  silent 
most  of  the  time.  She  wondered  if  he  were  worried  about 
something. 

High  up  above  the  thirty-foot  retaining-wall,  behind  its 
palms  and  pollard  acacias,  the  chalet  was  pouring  forth  a 
stream  of  light  from  its  open  door.  The  faithful  Luigi 
was  evidently  sitting  up  for  her. 

Amaldi  stepped  out  and  held  out  his  hand  to  her.  Sophy 
was  close  to  Amaldi  on  the  narrow  plank  of  the  ~banclietta. 
That  look  in  his  face  hurt  her.  Then  his  eyes  turned  sud 
denly  away. 

"Thank  your  mother  for  me,  please,  Marchese,"  she 
said,  "for  the  lovely  day  she  gave  me,  and  for  lending  me 
her  cloak." 

She  slipped  it  from  her  shoulders  as  she  spoke  and  put  it, 


208  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

all  warm  with  herself,  into  Amaldi  's  arras.  He  shivered  as 
he  felt  the  warmth  of  the  folds  under  his  hands.  Murmur 
ing  some  civil  commonplace,  he  stood  aside  to  let  her  pass. 
She  went  up  the  little  pathway  followed  by  Luigi. 

As  she  entered  the  doorway  in  the  terrace-wall,  the  clock 
in  the  Campanile  of  San  Maurizio,  on  the  hill  above,  began 
slowly  striking  midnight.  Amaldi  stood  until  it  had  fin 
ished,  then  started  the  Fretta's  engine.  He  sat  with  one 
hand  upon  the  wheel,  the  other  grasping  the  folds  of  the 
grey  cloak.  Suddenly  he  bent  and  pressed  his  face  upon  it. 
It  was  still  warm,  and  this  warmth  gave  forth  a  fresh, 
faint  scent  of  citron. 


XXXV 

THAT  day  at  Le  Vigne  was  the  beginning  of  a  very  happy 
period  for  Sophy.  Not  only  was  she  infatuated  with  Italy, 
but  her  pleasure  in  it  Avas  doubled  by  the  fact  that  she  had 
two  such  charming  friends  to  share  it  with  her,  to  reveal  it 
to  her  from  within  as  it  were.  The  Marchesa  had  perforce 
to  accept  Sophy's  invitation  to  lunch  with  her  at  Villa 
Bianca — Amaldi  was  of  course  asked,  too.  His  mother  was 
much  reassured  by  the  perfect  composure  of  his  manner  on 
this  occasion  and  on  others  that  followed  in  natural  se 
quence.  But  what  gave  her  the  greatest  feeling  of  security 
was  Sophy  herself.  No  woman  in  the  least  eprise  with  a 
man  could  show  such  perfect,  cordial  liking  for  him  in  his 
mother's  presence.  Such  was  the  Marchesa 's  opinion. 

And  she  began  to  think  that  she  might  have  been  mis 
taken  also  about  Marco.  His  manner,  the  evening  that  she 
had  spoken  to  him  on  this  subject,  might  very  well  have 
resulted  from  his  intense  dislike  of  personal  discussions. 
He  had  always  been  astringently  reserved,  even  in  child 
hood.  Altogether  the  Marchesa  felt  immensely  relieved, 
though  she  did  not  relax  a  whit  of  her  precaution.  She  was 
always  one  of  the  party  on  the  pleasant  trips  they  took  to 
different  points  of  interest  on  the  lake,  that  Samuel  Butler 
justly  calls  "so  far  the  most  beautiful  of  all  even  the  Ital 
ian  lakes." 

Sophy  could  scarcely  realise  now  those  ghastly  days  at 
Dynehurst  when  the  never  ceasing  rain  had  made  misery 
more  miserable.  Only  when  Anne  Harding 's  letters  came, 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  209 

as  they  did  about  once  a  week,  and  when  she  wrote  herself 
to  Cecil,  was  she  plucked  for  a  moment  from  her  joyous 
illusion  of  a  new  existence  that  might  go  sparkling  on  in 
definitely.  And  she  began  to  take  a  quiet  delight  in  her 
growing  knowledge  of  Amaldi's  character.  They  spoke  to 
each  other  without  words  sometimes,  for  they  had  grown 
to  know  strangely  well  how  certain  things  would  impress 
them  both.  Indeed  Sophy  did  not  at  all  realise  how  she 
had  come  to  count  on  Amaldi's  companionship,  until  one 
afternoon,  when  going  down  to  the  banchetta  to  join  the 
Marchesa  for  one  of  their  jaunts,  she  saw  that  he  was  not 
with  her. 

"Yes,  my  dear,"  said  that  lady,  answering  the  question 
in  her  eyes,  "we  shall  be  two  'lone,  lorn  women'  this  even 
ing.  Marco  has  been  called  to  Rome  on  business.  He  was 
much  disappointed,  as  you  may  imagine.  I  bring  you 
'ianii  saluti  e  rincrescimenti'  from  him.  He  went  at  eight 
o'clock  this  morning." 

The  fact  was,  Amaldi  had  come  to  a  point  in  his  passion 
for  Sophy  when  he  found  it  suddenly  insupportable  to  be 
thus  near  her  day  after  day,  exposed  to  the  kind  cruelty 
of  her  friendship.  He  had  decided,  over  night,  that  he 
must  escape,  if  only  for  a  breathing  spell  as  it  were,  and 
he  had  invented  this  excuse  of  affari  at  Rome. 

Then  the  Marchesa  herself  had  to  go  to  Milan  again  for 
a  few  days.  Sophy  was  left  quite  alone,  save  for  Bobby  and 
the  maids.  And  somehow,  the  whole  lakeside  seemed  dif 
ferent  suddenly — beautiful  but  empty.  September  was 
drawing  on.  Soon  she  would  have  to  be  leaving.  She 
feared  the  October  winds  and  rains  for  Bobby.  It  was  apt 
to  be  rainy  in  October,  the  Marchesa  said.  Only  one  month 
more.  Perhaps  she  would  not  see  Amaldi  again  before  she 
left.  She  would  not  admit  the  sinking  of  her  heart  at  this 
idea.  No,  her  sadness  was  chiefly  that  she  would  have  to 
leave  this  lovely  spot.  She  thought  of  going  to  Florence 
— or  Venice She  felt  unsettled. 

One  afternoon,  when  the  warm  hours  dragged  rather 
heavily  and  she  was  tired  of  reading,  she  ordered  a  little 
carozza  and  went  off  to  hunt  antiques  at  Intra.  She  spent 
two  dusty,  pleasant  hours  of  rummaging,  and  returned 
with  many  parcels. 

"Wait,"  she  said  to  the  cocchiere;  "I  will  send  some  one 
to  fetch  these  things. ' ' 


210  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

It  was  already  dark,  the  violet  dusk  that  is  called  "dark" 
in  Italy.  She  ran  quickly  up  the  two  flights  of  stone  steps 
leading  to  the  terrace.  Some  one  was  standing  there,  and 
came  towards  her  as  she  appeared.  She  thought  it  was 
Luigi  at  first. 

' '  Luigi,  please  go —  ' '  she  began.  Then  broke  off  short. 
"Is  it — you?"  she  asked  in  a  low  voice. 

Something  in  this  "you" — the  way  she  said  it — made 
Amaldi's  heart  go  hot  for  an  instant.  Then  he  answered 
quietly : 

"Yes.  .  .  .  It's  I." 

"Ah  ..."  she  breathed.  "You — you  startled  me,"  she 
added  as  if  in  explanation. 

They  were  standing  close  together.  The  light  wind  blew 
her  long  veil  against  his  cheek.  From  it  there  came  that 
faint  fragrance  of  citron.  lie  was  glad  that  it  was  so  dark 
here  011  the  terrace.  He  said,  with  an  effort : 

"Luigi  told  me  that  you  would  be  back  shortly,  so  I 
waited." 

"I  ...  I  am  glad,"  she  said.  Her  heart  was  beating 
fast.  It  was  because  he  had  startled  her,  she  told  herself. 
She  had  thought  him  in  Rome.  Now  he  was  suddenly  here 
— close  to  her.  She  could  think  of  nothing  to  say.  She 
felt  awkward — shy. 

' '  Won 't  you  .  .  .  won 't  you  stop  to  dinner  ? ' '  she  asked 
lamely,  but  her  voice  sounded  lukewarm.  She  was  a  little 
frightened  again,  because  she  wanted  him  to  stay  so  much. 
The  Anglo-Saxon  in  her  put  this  chill  note  in  her  voice  just 
because  she  so  much  wanted  it. 

"Thanks — no,"  he  said.  "It  is  very  kind  of  you,  but 
Baldi  is  waiting  dinner  for  me. ' ' 

She  said  again,  murmuring  the  words,  slurring  them 
together : 

"I'm  sorry." 

' '  But  I  will  stay  a  few  moments  if  you  will  let  me, ' '  said 
Amaldi,  hesitating  a  little. 

"Yes — do,"  she  answered,  somewhat  recovering  herself. 
"I  will  just  send  Luigi  down  for  my  parcels,  and  come 
back — it  is  cooler  here."  She  did  not  want  to  go  into  the 
lighted  house  with  him  just  then.  She  still  felt  that  queer 
shyness. 

"Let  me  call  him,"  said  Amaldi. 

When  he  came  back,  she  was  sitting  on  one  of  the  little 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  211 

stone  seats  near  the  railing  of  the  terrace.  He  longed  to 
see  her  face  more  clearly,  yet  he,  too,  did  not  want  to  go 
into  the  light  just  then. 

"It  was  very  hot  in  Rome,"  he  said  conventionally. 
"  I  'm  glad  to  be  back  again. ' ' 

' ' Yes, ' '  said  Sophy.    "It  is  nice  to  have  you  back. ' ' 

She  felt  the  flatness  of  this  ' '  nice. ' ' 

"We  .  .  .  missed  you,"  she  added  quickly. 

"Thank  you,"  said  Amaldi.    His  voice  shook  a  little. 

"I  ...  I  thought  perhaps  you  mightn't  come  till  I  had 
gone. ' ' 

He  was  silent  a  second,  then  he  said  in  a  queer  voice : 

' '  Could  you  really  have  thought  that  ? ' ' 

"Well  ...  I  ...  I  was  afraid  you  might  be  kept," 
she  stumbled.  There  had  been  a  hurt  in  his  voice. 

"Nothing  could  have  kept  me  from  saying  good-by  to 
you,"  he  said  quietly. 

Her  head  turned  towards  him,  quick  and  startled. 

' '  Oh !  Are  you  going  away  again  ? ' '  she  said — then 
caught  her  lip  between  her  teeth  in  the  soft  gloom. 

' '  No, ' '  said  Amaldi  very  low. 

Sophy  felt  the  strange  tension  of  this  halting  talk.  She 
rose  suddenly. 

"Perhaps  we  had  better  go  in  after  all,"  she  said,  and 
her  tone  was  full  of  the  embarrassment  against  which  she 
struggled.  "We  seem  like  two  disembodied  spirits  talking 
out  of  the  dusk  like  this. ' ' 

' '  I  wish  we  were, ' '  came  the  answer,  tense  and  abrupt  as 
though  in  spite  of  his  will. 

"Oh,  no,"  she  faltered,  attempting  a  little  laugh  which 
died  out  helplessly.  "We  are  both  too  fond  of  life  for 
that,  Marchese. " 

"I  could  be  fond  of  it.' 

"No,  no.    You  are  fond  of  it  now." 

"Yes  .  .  .  now." 

"Come — Luigi  has  taken  up  my  parcels.  Such  lovely 
things.  I  want  to  show  them  to  you. ' ' 

"Prego  .  .  .  but  I  must  be  going — Baldi  will  begin  to 
fret." 

He  had  recovered  a  more  ordinary  tone.  He  had  himself 
gripped  hard.  What  was  there  in  her  shy  voice  which  had 
almost  made  him  lose  command  of  himself  for  a  moment? 
There  had  been  something.  No;  he  was  a  fond  fool.  He 


212  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

held  out  his  hand  for  good-night.  She  put  hers  in  it.  The 
man's  blood  and  spirit  was  one  cry  within  him.  It  called 
to  her  so  wildly  that  he  thought  she  must  hear  that  voice 
of  silence.  Her  hand  seemed  to  quiver  as  it  lay  in  his, 
then  she  withdrew  it  quickly. 

"Good-night,"  she  said.  He  murmured  "good-night," 
turned  and  was  gone.  Sophy  stood  gazing  out  to  where 
the  Fretta  lay  a  whitish  blur  along  the  ~banchetta.  Then 
she  saw  the  little  jewel  of  its  lamp  shine  suddenly — Peder's 
face  glowed  yellow-red  in  the  flare  of  the  match,  then  went 
out  as  it  were.  Now  Amaldi  had  got  in.  She  heard  the 
engine  begin  to  hum.  In  a  second  the  dusk  had  swallowed 
them. 

She  stood  gripping  the  iron  rail,  till  the  chill  struck 
along  her  arms.  She  was  very  honest  with  herself.  "I 
care  too  much  .  .  .  not  that  way  .  .  .  but  oh !  ...  I  care 
too  much  ! ' '  she  was  saying.  ' '  And  he  cares  ...  he  cares 
...  I  must  go  away  ...  I  must  go  even  sooner  than  I 
thought.  ..."  Then  she  sank  down  on  the  little  stone 
seat,  and  pressed  her  forehead  to  the  rail. 

"Life  is  hard  ...  it  is  hard  .  .  .  hard,"  she  thought, 
a  great  wave  of  bitterness  going  over  her. 

But  the  next  day  she  was  so  worried  about  Bobby,  who 
had  caught  cold  in  some  way,  that  she  had  no  time  to  give, 
even  in  thought,  to  other  anxieties.  The  child  looked  pale, 
the  glands  in  his  little  neck  were  swollen,  he  seemed  to 
have  pain,  clasping  his  fat  little  stomach  with  pathetic 
hands  and  saying :  ' '  Naughty  tummy.  Bobby  tummy  bad 
— naughty."  He  was  a  manly  little  chap  and  wouldn't 
howl  outright,  but  he  curled  into  a  ball  on  his  cot,  mur 
muring,  "Oo  .  .  .  oo  .  .  .  o — o"  plaintively. 

Sophy  would  not  have  felt  so  anxious  had  Miller  been 
with  her,  but  that  personage  had  found  Italy  with  its 
"gibberish"  and  lack  of  most  domestic  conveniences  in 
supportable  after  the  first  two  weeks,  and  so  she  had  re 
spectfully  given  warning.  Bobby,  to  Sophy's  great  relief, 
took  her  departure  calmly.  Miller  had  been  a  dutiful  but 
not  endearing  nurse. 

Then  the  Marchesa  had  come  to  the  fore  with  her  usual 
kindliness,  and  provided  Bobby  with  the  nurse  who  was 
to  prove  the  love  of  his  young  life.  This  woman  was  Rosa 
Ramoni,  a  Lombard  peasant.  Her  dark,  square-lidded  eyes 
reminded  Sophy  of  the  Duse's,  but  their  expression  was 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  213 

very  different — almost  bovinely  guileless,  yet  sparkling 
with  merriment,  that  gushed  over  at  the  least  trifle,  into 
her  free,  delicious  Contadina's  laugh.  Rosa  had  one  of  the 
wisest  hearts  in  the  world,  but  her  knowledge  of  nursery 
physic  was  primitive  to  say  the  least.  Even  after  seeing 
Dottore  Camenis  from  Stresa,  and  hearing  to  her  great 
relief  that  Bobby's  "naughty  tummy"  was  only  the  result 
of  indigestion  brought  on  by  cold,  Sophy  was  afraid  to 
leave  him  quite  to  Rosa's  care  for  a  day  or  two,  so  she  had 
to  refuse  the  invitation  which  came  from  the  Marchesa,  the 
morning  after  Amaldi's  return,  and  which  said  that  now 
they  must  have  the  gita  which  Marco's  visit  to  Rome  had 
broken  up. 

When  Sophy  wrote  to  explain,  the  Marchesa  answered  by 
saying,  "Then  the  first  day  your  dear  tousin  is  well 
enough."  Sophy  could  not  refuse  without  seeming  un 
gracious.  "This  time,  then,"  she  thought,  "but  I  must 
make  definite  plans  to-morrow  for  leaving.  Bobby's  cold 
gives  me  just  the  right  excuse  ..."  But  her  heart  felt 
very  heavy  and  very  lonely  at  this  decision  of  her  reason. 

The  afternoon  was  all  blue  and  gold — one  of  those  per 
fect  days  in  late  August,  when  the  summer  warmth  sparkles 
with  the  zest  of  autumn.  An  old  school-friend  of  the 
Marchesa  was  arriving  by  the  evening  train  from  Milan. 
So  they  were  to  use  the  Fretta,  starting  at  five  o'clock 
from  Villa  Bianca  and  stopping  at  Isola  Bella  for  tea. 
Afterwards  Sophy  would  be  left  at  home,  and  the  Fretta 
would  go  on  to  Laveno  to  meet  the  Marchesa 's  friend. 

It  seemed  strange,  startling  somehow,  to  see  Amaldi's 
face  in  this  blaze  of  sunshine,  after  last  seeing  it  in  the  dim 
starlight.  He  was  as  quietly  composed  as  usual,  however. 
The  only  difference  that  she  noticed  about  him  was  that 
he  managed  always  when  looking  at  her  not  to  look  directly 
into  her  eyes.  This  relieved  and  saddened  her  at  the  same 
time.  But  when  they  got  to  Isola  Bella,  and  he  grasped 
her  hand,  assisting  her  to  step  in  and  out  of  the  row-boats 
that  lay  between  the  Fretta  and  the  shore,  she  caught  her 
foot  on  a  seat,  nearly  falling  into  the  water :  then  his  eyes 
went  into  hers.  He  had  to  catch  her  to  him,  rather  roughly 
in  the  exigency  of  the  moment,  close  against  his  side.  As 
he  glanced  down  at  her,  she  glanced  up  involuntarily: — 
his  eyes  went  deep  into  hers — a  keen,  quick  ray,  making 
her  feel  as  if  her  spirit  had  been  stabbed.  It  winced  from 


214 

that  suddenly  unsheathed  stabbing  look,  as  her  flesh  would 
have  winced  from  a  blade.  He  loosed  her  instantly,  but 
she  felt  the  contact  of  that  look  through  and  through  her. 

During  tea  she  talked  rather  fast  and  rather  more  than 
usual.  !She  made  the  Marchesa  laugh  her  gay  arpeggio  of 
"Ila-haV;  Amaldi  smiled  politely.  He  was  smoking 
after  his  tea.  He  seemed  to  enjoy  his  cigarette  especially- 
inhaling  deeply  and  letting  the  smoke  escape  through  his 
nostrils  very  slowly,  his  eyes  watching  it. 

''I  am  still  worried  about  Bobby,  Marchesa,"  said  Sophy 
suddenly.  ' '  He  has  a  little  cough.  I  think  I  shall  take  him 
south.  I  thought  of  Sorrento." 

"But,  my  dear,  September  is  a  warm,  lovely  month  with 
us — like  summer.  Only  the  nights  and  mornings  are  crisp. 
Aren't  you  over-anxious?" 

The  Marchesa  had  not  been  a  fussy  mother  herself.  She 
thought  Sophy  inclined  to  coddle  Bobby. 

"Yes — I  know,"  Sophy  replied  hurriedly.  "But  the 
change  will  be  best  for  him  I'm  sure.  Besides — my  hus 
band  will  be  well  enough  to  travel  shortly — I  heard  from 
the  nurse  to-day.  He  loves  the  sea — sailing  and  fishing. 
I  'm  afraid  he  'd  feel  the  lake  too  shut  in — 

"Oh,  in  that  case  ..."  said  the  Marchesa.  She  was 
pleased  to  hear  Sophy  mention  her  husband  in  this  way. 
It  had  struck  her  how  rarely  she  mentioned  him.  Never 
before  had  she  done  so  when  the  three  were  together,  that 
the  Marchesa  could  remember.  She  had  wondered  some 
times  what  could  ail  Mr.  Chesney,  that  his  wife  seemed  so 
reticent  about  his  illness.  Now  she  felt  that  things  were 
settling  down  into  just  the  right  form.  It  was  very  good 
that  Marco  should  hear  Sophy  planning  thus  for  the  pleas 
ure  of  her  husband.  She  glanced  at  him  d  la  derobce.  He 
was  smoking  as  imperturbably  as  ever.  He  seemed  to  be 
interested  in  the  movements  of  some  fishermen  who  were 
putting  out  for  the  evening  cast. 

"I've  heard  that  there's  splendid  sailing  and  fishing 
around  Naples,"  Sophy  went  on,  nervously  garrulous. 
' '  Cecil  won 't  be  coming  for  another  month,  I  suppose ;  but 
I  could  go  and  look  up  a  villa  and — and  get  things  ready. ' ' 

"And  what  will  you  do  with  this  villa,  my  dear? 
You've  four  months  yet  to  run.  You  should  sublet  it." 

And  the  Marchesa,  always  practical,  began  to  discuss 
with  Sophy  the  possibilities  of  subletting  Villa  Bianca. 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  215 

It  was  six  o'clock  when  they  left  Isola  Bella.  The  train 
from  Milan  did  not  reach  Laveno  until  half-past  seven. 
Amaldi  spoke  of  this  as  they  went  toward  the  landing. 

"What  shall  we  do  with  our  extra  hour?"  asked  the 
Marchesa.  "What  would  you  like  to  do,  my  dear?"  she 
said,  turning  to  Sophy,  who  was  gazing  at  the  Palazzo  on 
the  Isola  Madre. 

Sophy  started,  as  she  often  did  these  days  when  some 
one  spoke  suddenly  to  her.  She  had  been  immersed  in  a 
sad,  prescient  feeling,  as  though  this  afternoon  were  one  of 
long  farewells.  Now  as  the  Marchesa  spoke,  she  yielded 
to  a  wish  that  she  had  often  had,  and  that  came  to  her  in 
this  moment  very  strongly.  They  had  never  visited  the 
Isola  Madre.  There  had  been  so  many  other  things  of 
more  obvious  interest  to  see;  but  Sophy  had  always  felt 
drawn  to  that  tranquil,  tree-clad  spot,  with  its  rosy  Palace 
in  which  no  one  lived. 

"Do  you  think — would  there  be  time,  for  us  to  go  to 
Isola  Madre?"  she  asked  hesitatingly. 

The  Marchesa  said  briskly  that  it  was  the  very  thing — 
and  on  their  way,  too. 

The  evening  came  stealing  on  as  with  a  gracious  mod 
esty.  There  was  no  flare  of  gorgeous  colour — not  a  cloud. 
Very  delicately,  very  slowly,  sky  and  water  became  suf 
fused  with  soft,  dim  saffron.  The  Isola  Madre  lay  against 
it  like  an  island  of  dark-green  smoke,  sent  up  to  the  lake's 
clear  surface  by  some  submerged  volcano. 

They  found  another  boat  at  the  landing.  No  sooner 
had  they  reached  the  upper  terrace  than  the  Marchesa  was 
approached  by  a  lively  French  lady  wTho  had  brought  some 
friends  to  see  the  island.  There  was  a  flutter  of  intro 
ductions  all  round.  Sophy  was  much  disappointed.  This 
vivacious  lady  seemed  so  jarringly  out  of  key  with  the 
lovely  hour,  and  the  wistful  beauty  of  the  island.  Amaldi 
was  standing  near  her. 

"Shall  we  walk  on?"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice.  "I  know 
the  island  well.  ..." 

She  turned  away  with  him,  feeling  that  perhaps  she 
should  not,  feeling  also  that  whether  it  were  wrong  or  right 
she  would  have  this  last,  beautiful  hour  with  him. 

They  went  in  silence  across  the  lawns  to  the  flagged 
walk  behind  the  Palazzo,  which  leads,  broad  and  stately, 
set  with  shallow  steps,  beneath  an  avenue  of  ilex  trees. 


216 

The  dark,  pointed  leaves  made  a  gothic  fret-work  against 
the  saffron  of  the  sky. 

"Ladies  in  Genoa  velvets  and  silk  gowns  embroidered 
with  golden  castles,  like  the  gown  of  poor  Isabella,"  mur 
mured  Sophy.  "I  see  them  moving  on  before  me — with 
white  peacocks  mincing  after  .  .  .  There  .  .  .  Don 't  you 
see  them,  too?  This  walk  is  haunted  ..." 

"It  will  be  haunted  .  .  .  when  I  return  to  it  ... 
alone  ..."  said  Amaldi. 

She  tried  to  think  of  some  answer.  She  could  not.  Yet 
the  silence  must  be  broken.  Silence  had  such  a  terrible 
eloquence  of  its  own. 

"I  ...  I  shall  come  back  some  day,"  she  said  at  last. 
It  was  as  if  the  words  sprang  of  their  own  volition.  Yet 
as  she  uttered  them  a  feeling  leaped  also  within  her.  She 
felt  sure,  sure  that  she  would  come  back  some  day — that 
he  and  she  would  be  walking  here  together — that  all  would 
be  different — that  they  would  say  to  each  other:  "Do  you 
remember  that  other  evening  when  we  walked  here  ? ' ' 

"So  you  feel  that,  too?"  he  said,  in  that  same  low  voice. 
And  now  he  was  looking  into  her  eyes  steadily,  and  there 
was  exultation  in  this  look. 

Here  the  Marchesa  called  them.  She  was  walking  briskly 
towards  them,  holding  up  her  little  watch  on  its  jewelled 
chain,  stopping  where  she  was. 

"Time  to  go!"  she  called.  As  they  joined  her,  she  said 
vexedly:  "That  oca  of  a  woman  kept  me  standing  there 
till  a  moment  since — I'm  glad  Marco  thought  of  taking 
you  on,  my  dear.  You  wouldn't  have  had  time  for  even  a 
peep,  otherwise." 

It  was  quite  dusk  when  they  reached  the  Villa  Bianca. 
Amaldi  helped  Sophy  out  and  went  up  to  the  villa  with 
her.  As  they  mounted  the  last  step,  and  came  out  upon  the 
terrace,  they  saw  that  some  one  was  standing  there — the 
figure  of  a  man,  looking  almost  gigantic  in  the  thick  twi 
light.  He  walked  towards  them  with  a  long,  swinging 
step  that  brought  him  near  in  a  few  paces. 

"Cecil  .  .  .?"  Amaldi  heard  her  whisper. 

"Is  that  you,  Sophy?"  came  Chesney's  voice.  "This  is 
the  most  confoundedly  tricky  light."  He  was  close  now. 
"Ah,  yes!  ...  I  see  it's  you,"  he  ended,  with  a  note  of 
vibrant  satisfaction  in  his  voice.  "How  d'ye  do?"  he 
added,  peering  at  Amaldi. 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  217 

"The  Marchese  Amaldi "  murmured  Sophy,  as  once 

before. 

"How  d'ye  do?"  said  Chesney  again. 

"How  d'ye  do?"  said  Amaldi.  The  men  bowed  with 
out  shaking  hands.  The  three  stood  a  little  awkwardly 
for  a  second  in  the  dusk.  Luigi  came  pattering  down  the 
third  flight  of  steps  that  led  to  the  upper  terrace  on 
which  the  house  stood.  Amaldi  yielded  Sophy's  cloak  to 
him. 

"Excuse  my  haste,"  he  then  said,  "but  my  mother's 
waiting  for  me  below.  We've  a  train  to  meet.  Good 
evening,  Mrs.  Chesney.  Good  evening  ..." 

He  was  gone. 

Chesney  stood  immovable  till  he  heard  the  descending 
footsteps  die  away.  Then  he  said: 

' '  Sophy  ! ' '  His  voice  was  thick  with  feeling.  Sophy 
felt  giddy — the  twilight  seemed  closing  in  on  her  in  waves. 
She  breathed  it  like  a  stifling  vapour. 

"Sophy!"  said  Chesney  again.  He  caught  her  to  him — 
felt  for  her  mouth  with  his  in  the  blinding  dusk — crushed 
kisses  down  upon  it  until  she  winced  with  physical  pain. 
That  London  smell  of  his  coat  was  strong  in  her  nostrils. 
The  past  two  months  shrivelled  like  a  wisp  of  paper  in  a 
flame.  There  was  no  Italy  ...  no  dream  .  .  .  only  this 
great  man  holding  her,  bruising  her  with  his  lips  and  body. 
In  the  utter  quiet  of  the  evening,  she  could  hear  distinctly 
the  throbbing  of  the  Fretta's  engine  as  it  sped  away  to 
wards  Laveno. 


XXXVI 

SOPHY  felt  very  anxious  when  she  learned  that  Cecil  had 
not  brought  either  Gaynor  or  Anne  Harding  with  him. 
The  letter  that  she  received  next  morning  from  Anne  did 
not  reassure  her:  "Mr.  Chesney  has  certainly  done  won 
derfully  for  such  a  short  time,"  it  said;  "but  he's  not  out 
of  the  woods  yet,  by  any  manner  of  means!  I  don't  mean 
that  he  hasn't  stopped  taking  all  drugs,  but  that  he  hasn't 
stopped  long  enough  to  go  it  alone."  (Anne  was  a  great 
underscorer — her  letters  reminded  Sophy  of  her  vehement, 
italicised  speech.)  "He  should  have  me  with  him  this 
minute.  He  won 't  be  entirely  safe  for  two  years.  But  we 


218  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

could  do  nothing.  His  constitution  is  amazing.  He  really 
is  well — in  a  way — but  he  isn't  near  as  strong  yet  a  while 
as  he  thinks  he  is — either  mentally  or  physically.  Dr. 
Carfew  was  much  displeased  by  his  leaving  so  abruptly ; 
but,  as  I  said — we  could  do  nothing.  This  is  a  free  coun 
try — worse  luck  for  it  in  some  ways ! ' ' 

And  yet  Cecil  certainly  seemed  normal  in  all  respects. 
His  good  temper  over  inconveniences  was  astonishing  in 
so  fastidious  and  pampered  a  man.  Never  since  he  was 
twenty  had  he  been  without  a  skilled  valet.  Now  he  put 
up  with  Luigi's  amateurish  ministrations,  as  though  it 
were  a  sort  of  lark  to  have  his  boots  treed  rights  on  lefts, 
and  his  ties,  socks,  and  handkerchiefs  mingled  confusedly. 
Luigi  himself  was  fully  aware  of  his  shortcomings.  Pie 
was  a  finished  butler,  but  had  never  valeted  any  one.  Still 
he  was  intelligent.  "Direct  me  .  .  .  direct  me,  milor'," 
he  would  plead.  "I  shall  improve  with  time,  like  wine." 

So,  far  from  being  irritated  by  the  lake,  Chesney  seemed 
to  feel  its  charm  strongly.  He  questioned  Sophy  about 
her  life  of  the  past  two  months;  expressed  himself  much 
touched  by  the  kindness  shown  her  by  the  Marehesa. 

"You  must  take  me  there,"  he  said.  "We'll  hire  a 
steam-launch  of  our  own  for  the  rest  of  the  time  we  're  here 
— from  what's-his-name — the  man  at  Stresa.  .  .  .  What 
did  you  call  him?" 

"Taroni,"  said  Sophy. 

It  was  the  day  after  his  arrival.  She  still  felt  rather 
stunned,  as  though  a  bolt  had  struck  the  quiet  house  of  her 
content.  She  felt  blasted  by  his  renewed,  torrential  pas 
sion  and  the  quintessential  strength  of  his  personality. 
Fortunately  for  her,  she  could  be  merely  the  leaf  in  the 
storm — had  only  to  let  it  sweep  her  along  without  effort  on 
her  part.  The  storm  does  not  take  account  of  the  leaves  it 
whirls  in  its  imperious  grasp.  Chesney,  in  his  present 
volcanic  gusto  of  renewed  health,  would  as  soon  have 
thought  of  pausing  to  ask  whether  the  partner  in  his  feast 
of  love  shared  his  transports  as  an  eagle  would  think  of 
inquiring  of  a  lamb  whether  it  enjoys  being  devoured.  He 
was  fond  of  calling  her  "Diana."  He  \vas  sure  that  even 
with  Endymion,  the  goddess  had  been  veiled  and  reticent. 
And  Sophy  had  been  "in  love"  writh  him  once.  He  took  it 
for  granted,  in  his  lordly  way — that,  after  all,  had  some 
thing  grandiose  in  it — that  she  was  still  in  love  with  him. 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  219 

He  had  been  an  "ill  man"  when  he  offended  her — (some 
times  it  made  him  wince  that  he  must  have  offended  even 
more  terribly  than  he  could  recall).  It  was,  as  Heine  had 
said  of  le  Bon  Dieu,  a  woman's  metier  to  forgive. 

And  he  rushed  exuberantly  to  and  fro,  ordering  a  fast 
steam-launch  from  Taroni ;  sweeping  Sophy  off  in  it  to 
Intra  to  choose  a  piano — it  vexed  him  that  she  had  no 
piano,  had  not  been  singing  at  all  during  her  stay  in  Italy ; 
spending  hours  in  trying  to  find  a  small  sailing  yacht  to 
his  liking. 

"That's  a  ripper  your  friend  Amaldi's  got,"  he  said  to 
Sophy.  "The  Wind-Flower.  Jolly  name,  by  the  way. 
Perhaps  he'd  help  me  find  a  good  'un.  Let's  go  over  to 
their  place  this  afternoon.  I  want  to  thank  the  old  lady 
for  being  so  decent  to  you  and  the  little  chap." 

So  they  went  tearing  through  the  autumn-coloured 
water  to  Le  Vigne,  at  a  rate  that  would  have  made  the 
little  Fretta  look  like  a  water-snail.  And  this  new,  power 
ful,  highly-polished  mahogany  launch,  glittering  with  a 
sort  of  defiant  grin  of  shining  metal,  hissing  through  the 
quiet  lake  like  an  Express,  seemed  symbolical  to  Sophy  of 
the  ruthless  power  which  had  suddenly  seized  her  life  and 
was  hurling  it  blindly  to  some  unknown  goal.  As  she  sat 
quiet  in  the  new  launch,  so  she  sat  quiet  in  the  grasp  of 
Chesney's  will.  So,  she  told  herself,  it  was  her  duty  to 
sit  quiet.  Where  she  was  now,  her  own  act  had  placed  her 
— besides,  she  still  felt  affection  for  her  husband,  though 
love  in  its  highest,  divinest  form  was  gone  forever.  If  only 
he  would  not  stun  her  with  those  fiery  crashes  of  unshared 
passion !  She  felt  like  some  sentient  lyre,  on  which  a  giant 
without  sense  of  music  strums  with  a  mighty  plectrum. 
The  fine  chords  of  her  nature  snapped  with  the  clashing 
shocks.  She  felt  as  though  she  had  been  through  some 
wild  fever  of  which  the  delirium  left  her  brain  dazed  and 
numb. 

What  she  now  dreaded  most  was  to  see  Amaldi.  Not  be 
cause  of  any  feeling  that  she  had  or  might  have  had  for 
him,  but  because  he  was  so  vividly  a  part  of  something 
that  was  gone  forever,  and  that  had  been  so  beautiful. 
Yes,  that  tranquil  dream  of  which  he  had  been  a  part  was 
as  utterly  dispelled  as  the  reflection  in  a  quiet  pool  shat 
tered  by  the  crash  of  a  boulder.  She  felt  that  numbness, 
that  lack  of  acute  pain  which  it  is  said  a  soldier  experi- 


220  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

ences  when  in  the  heat  of  battle  a  limb  is  suddenly  shot 
away.  She  was  maimed  for  life,  she  felt,  and  she  regretted 
it — but  it  was  as  if  her  mind  rather  than  her  heart  suf 
fered  from  this  regret. 

They  found  the  Marchesa  alone  at  Le  Vigne.  She  was 
sorry,  she  said,  that  her  son  should  miss  the  pleasure  of 
seeing  them.  He  had  gone  to  Milan  for  a  few  days.  The 
relief  of  hearing  this  was  so  great  that  Sophy  paled  with  it. 
The  elder  woman  thought  she  looked  exhausted  and  oddly 
listless.  She  firmly  believed  in  the  "Vampirising"  qual 
ities  of  some  people ;  taking  in  Chesney  with  her  shrewd, 
lustrous  eyes,  she  decided  that  he  wras  probably  a  most 
"VampirLsing"  person.  By  this,  the  Marchesa  did  not 
mean  that  one  actively  plays  the  part  of  Vampire  towards 
another,  but  that,  whether  or  no,  some  natures  suck  the 
vitality  from  those  with  whom  they  are  in  contact.  Yet 
Chesney  attracted  her  in  a  way,  while  at  the  same  time  he 
repelled  her.  She  was  too  completely  the  woman  not  to 
feel  the  force  of  his  extraordinary  vitality  and  superb 
physique,  but  she  was  herself  of  too  imperious  and  domi 
nating  a  temperament  not  to  resist  tacitly  the  stress  of  his 
somewhat  overpowering  personality.  She  made  herself 
perfectly  charming,  however. 

"What  a  gorgeous  old  lady!"  exclaimed  Chesney,  as 
they  rushed  home  again.  "Amaldi  must  be  a  decent  sort 
with  a  mater  like  that.  Wish  he'd  come  back  from  his 
damned  Milan.  I  want  that  yacht." 

Amaldi  returned  in  three  days,  and  came  for  a  formal 
call  to  Villa  Bianca.  He  had  conquered  the  first  well-nigh 
unbearable  recoil  from  the  idea  of  Chesney 's  presence,  and 
realised  that  certain  civil  forms  were  obligatory,  after  the 
rather  close  relations  that  had  grown  up  between  his 
mother  and  Sophy. 

Chesney  took  one  of  his  violent  fancies  to  the  young 
Lombard,  on  this  occasion.  He  had  utterly  forgotten  the 
jealousy  with  which  Amaldi  had  once  inspired  him,  when 
morphia  ruled  his  moods. 

He  and  Amaldi  began  talking  boats  and  boating. 
Amaldi  was  afraid  that  just  then  there  was  no  such  yacht 
as  Chesney  wished  to  hire  on  Lago  Maggiore.  He  might 
find  one,  however,  he  thought,  at  Costaguta's,  in  Genoa. 
But  Chesney  didn't  want  to  go  such  a  long  trip  by  rail. 
He  looked  disgruntled  and  his  big  shoulders  hunched  with 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  221 

a  boyish  petulance,  rather  engaging — had  not  his  every 
gesture  been  salt  on  Amaldi's  open  wound. 

"I  should  be  very  glad  if  you  would  come  with  me  in 
The  Wind-Flower  whenever  you  like,"  said  the  latter.  He 
had  not  once  glanced  towards  Sophy  since  he  and  her  hus 
band  began  their  talk ;  but  he  saw,  without  looking  at  her, 
the  tall  figure  in  its  white  serge  gown,  bending  over  the 
masses  of  Michaelmas  daisies  that  she  had  brought  in 
from  a  walk,  and  was  arranging  in  one  of  the  old  apothe 
cary  jars  from  Intra. 

It  hurt  Amaldi  to  look  at  Chesney  as  it  hurts  some  peo 
ple  to  look  on  blood — gave  him  just  that  faint,  gone  feeling. 
The  very  fact  that  he  was  so  magnificent  a  man  to  look  at 
hurt  him  that  much  more. 

Chesney  accepted  this  proposal  about  The  Wind-Flower 
with  frank  alacrity. 

''What  d'you  say  to  an  all-day  sail  to-morrow?"  he 
asked.  "You're  as  keen  on  sailing  as  I  am,  my  wife  tells 
me.  If  it's  convenient  .  .  ."he  added;  then  said  quickly, 
laughing :  "I  must  say,  I 've  landed  rather  plump  on  your 
offer,  Marquis." 

Amaldi  murmured  banal  assurances  of  the  pleasure  that 
it  would  afford  him  to  sail  all  day  with  Mr.  Chesney. 

"Good!"  Cecil  exclaimed,  much  pleased.  "And  I  say, 
suppose  we  drop  the  'Mister'  and  the  'Marquis' — such  rot, 
really — thanks.  Well,  Sophy — what  d'you  think?  Will 
you  come  along,  too — eh  ? ' ' 

1 '  No  ...  I  don 't  think  I  can  to-morrow,  Cecil. ' ' 

"Why  not?" 

"I  ...  I  don't  think  I  care  to  sail  all  day.  The  glare 
gives  me  a  headache  if  I  'm  out  too  long  in  it. ' ' 

' '  Just  as  you  like,  of  course.  But  I  rather  fancy  'twould 
do  you  good.  A  bit  of  sunburn  wouldn't  hurt — you're 
looking  a  bit  pale,  I  find.  What  do  you  think,  Amaldi? 
Don't  you  find  Mrs.  Chesney  paler  than  she  was  in  Eng 
land?" 

"I  don't  think  so,"  said  Amaldi.  His  throat  seemed 
to  close. 

He  and  Chesney  went  for  that  sail  and  several  others. 
With  a  sort  of  grim  satisfaction  Amaldi  would  tell  him 
self  on  these  occasions  that  the  more  Chesney  was  with 
him  the  less  his  wife  would  see  of  him.  He  felt  in  every 
fibre  the  relief  it  was  to  Sophy  when  her  husband's  tower- 


222  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

ing  figure  stepped  over  the  side  of  The  Wind-Flower  and 
was  gone  for  long  hours  together. 

For  the  week  following  Chesney's  arrival  the  weather 
had  a  crisp  tang  quite  autumnal ;  then  suddenly  it  changed, 
becoming  summer-like  and  even  sultry  again.  On  the  first 
day  of  this  change  Amaldi  and  Chesney  were  out  in  The 
Wind-Flower  together.  It  was  noon.  The  Tramontana 
had  died  out.  The  Inverna  had  not  yet  risen.  They  had 
been  running  before  the  wind,  and  now,  when  it  suddenly 
ceased,  the  heat  was  intense. 

Though  Amaldi 's  sailor,  Peppin,  was  always  aboard, 
Chesney  loved  handling  the  ropes  himself  when  not  at  the 
tiller,  which  Amaldi  insisted  on  his  taking  most  of  the 
time.  He  had  been  springing  about  at  a  great  rate  that 
morning,  shifting  the  spinnaker.  Now,  all  overheated  and 
sweltering  in  the  breathless  pause  between  the  breezes  of 
morning  and  afternoon,  he  announced  his  intention  of 
"going  overboard  for  a  swim." 

Amaldi  cautioned  him  that  the  September  air  played 
tricks  on  one,  and  that  the  Inverna  would  probably  blow 
rather  strong  that  day. 

"I  don't  think  I'd  do  it,"  he  said.  "We've  no  extra 
coats  aboard.  You  might  get  badly  chilled." 

"  'Chilled'?"  echoed  Chesney,  with  his  most  good- 
natured  grin.  "My  dear  chap,  that's  what  I'm  hop 
ing  .  .  ." 

He  was  getting  out  of  his  flannels  as  he  spoke. 

"I  really  wouldn't,  you  know,"  repeated  Amaldi. 

But  Chesney  only  whipped  his  shirt  over  his  head  for 
reply;  his  feet  were  already  bare.  And  against  the  blaz 
ing  mainsail,  in  the  full  glare  of  sunshine,  he  stood  there 
naked — a  magnificent,  glistering  shape  of  manhood  that 
caused  Peppin 's  eyes  to  shine. 

And  Amaldi,  too,  could  not  withhold  his  admiration. 
So  superb  was  this  huge,  stripped  man — so  perfectly  pro 
portioned — so  admirably  free  from  the  least  ounce  of  un 
necessary  fat. 

"Accident*!  Che  Marc  Antoni!"  (Lord!  What  a 
Mark  Antony  of  a  man ! )  breathed  Peppin,  as  the  sunlit 
body  flashed  oft8  into  the  water. 

But  its  very  splendour  as  of  the  supremacy  of  flesh 
sickened  Amaldi.  Were  they  primitive  men — men  of  the 
Stone  Age — and  should  they  grapple,  man  to  man,  what 


223 

chance  would  he,  Amaldi,  have  against  those  mighty  thews 
and  sinews? 

Chesney  swam  a  few  strokes,  his  white  body  greenish 
under  the  clear  water,  like  the  silver  belly  of  a  fish ;  then 
dived  beneath  the  yacht,  came  up  the  other  side,  swam  on 
his  side,  his  back,  dived  again ;  then  swung  himself  aboard, 
gleaming  with  wet  like  a  great  mother-o  '-pearl  image.  He 
took  the  towel  that  Peppin  handed  him  with  a  "Ha!"  of 
gusto. 

"I  feel  like  Jupiter!"  he  called,  rubbing  his  sides,  and 
back,  standing  on  one  foot  to  dry  the  other,  his  glossy  skin 
all  rosed  in  patches  from  his  vigorous  rubbing. 

Getting  quickly  into  his  shirt  and  trousers,  he  announced 
that  he  was  "hungry  as  ten  hunters." 

Peppin  opened  the  luncheon  hamper.  There  were  sand 
wiches  of  salami  and  anchovies,  purple  and  white  figs,  a 
fiasco  of  red  wine  from  Solcio. 

'  *  By  God !  this  is  living !  Eh  ?  What  ? ' '  asked  Chesney, 
his  lips  fresh  and  ruddy  with  wine.  He  grinned  with  the 
sheer  lust  of  life,  splitting  a  fig,  and  laying  its  seedy  pulp 
against  his  tongue  as  Peppin  had  shown  him  how  to  eat 
them  without  getting  the  rough  bite  of  the  skin.  "When 
you  find  rye-bread  and  fish  and  raw  fruit  better  than 
pressed  ducklings  at  Voisin's — you're  jolly  thoroughly 
alive,  I  take  it.  What  are  you  peering  at?  Wind  com 
ing?" 

"Yes,"  said  Amaldi. 

Chesney  leaped  up,  still  munching  the  other  half  of  his 
fig.  All  about  them  the  water  lay  in  long,  smooth  fluctu 
ations  as  of  molten  glass ;  but  here  and  there  a  dark-blue 
patch  spread  widening  like  a  stain  on  some  shining  fabric. 
The  sails  filled,  though  near  by  the  water  still  shone  clear 
and  smooth  as  glass.  Far  out,  beyond  the  point  of  the 
Fortino,  there  was  a  band  of  indigo,  stretched  right  across 
the  lake. 

"The  Inverna, "  said  Amaldi,  pointing.  "Won't  you 
take  the  tiller?"  he  added. 

Chesney  grasped  it  willingly.  All  his  blood  was  beat 
ing  in  little  pleasant  hammer-strokes  of  exultant  health  and 
strength.  Yet  as  the  first  chill  breaths  of  the  coming 
breeze  played  over  him,  he  felt  a  shivery  sensation  not 
altogether  agreeable. 

"Going  to  be  a  bit  of  a  blow — eh?"  he  asked,  screwing 


224  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

up  his  eyes  against  the  sun  to  watch  the  iron-blue  band 
that  was  widening  every  second.  "Think  I'll  just  get  my 
coat  on  in  that  case,"  he  added. 

Amaldi  took  the  tiller  while  Chesney  got  into  his  coat. 
Now  there  came  white  flashes  from  the  band  of  blue. 

"Un  Invernung,  Scior  Marchese,"  grinned  Peppin. 

"What's  he  say?"  asked  Chesney. 

"That  Ave're  going  to  have  an  'Invernung' — 'a  big  In- 
verna' — 'a  stiff  breeze,'  "  translated  Amaldi  patiently. 

And  indeed  the  South  Wind  pounced  on  them  in  a  few 
moments,  blowing  more  than  a  capful.  As  the  full  gust 
struck  her,  the  little  Wind-Flow er  heeled  till  her  shrouds 
were  under  water.  The  spray  came  from  her  dipping 
bows  in  a  silver  sluice,  drenching  them  even  where  they 
sat.  Against  the  wind  they  ran,  and  the  sails  bulged  full 
and  hard  as  though  carved  from  marble — only  a  slight 
flutter  near  the  mast  showed  how  close  to  the  wind  Ches 
ney  was  holding  her.  He  shouted  like  a  Viking  with  the 
fierce  fun  of  it,  as  the  spume  slapped  his  face  now  and 
then  with  the  topping  of  a  bigger  wave — exultant  with  that 
exultation  in  sheer  health  known  only  to  the  lately  re 
deemed  morphinomaniac.  Amaldi  thought  him  strangely 
effusive  in  his  pleasure,  for  an  Englishman.  The  more  he 
saw  of  him  the  more  distasteful  he  found  Chesney.  He  sat 
balanced  on  the  upper  side  of  the  cock-pit,  gazing  steadily 
forward.  Peppin  lay  flat  on  deck  to  windward.  The 
whole  lake  was  now  one  welter  of  white  and  indigo. 

But  though  for  a  while  his  delight  in  this  wild  game  with 
wind  and  water  shut  out  lesser  things,  by  the  time  that  the 
Inverna  had  romped  with  him  for  half  an  hour,  Chesney 
felt  chilled  to  the  bone.  Pride  kept  him  from  admitting  it. 
He  was  vexed  to  think  that  Amaldi 's  warning  had  been 
justified.  Also,  it  annoyed  him  that  he  should  not  have 
sufficient  vital  force  to  resist  getting  chilled  by  a  whiff  of 
wind  on  a  day  so  mild  as  this.  Anne  Harding  had  told 
him  that  he  was  not  yet  so  "almighty  strong  as  he  thought 
himself,  by  a  long  shot." 

He  reached  Villa  Bianca  two  hours  later,  feeling  rather 
moody,  and  with  a  nasty,  teasing  pain  in  his  legs  and  the 
small  of  his  back. 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  225 


XXXVII 

THE  pains  in  his  back  and  legs  persisted  all  that  night,  and 
in  the  morning  he  confessed  to  Sophy  that  he  thought  he  'd 
"caught  a  damned  cold  somehow,"  that  his  legs  felt  like 
a  pair  of  red-hot  compasses,  and  could  she  suggest  a  rem 
edy?  Sophy  brought  him  ten  grains  of  phenacetine  from 
her  little  travelling  medicine-chest,  and  in  an  hour  he  was 
much  relieved.  These  pains  were  all  the  more  annoying, 
as  he  had  heard  lately  of  the  yearly  boat-races  on  Lago 
Maggiore,  and  was  keen  on  having  Amaldi  enter  The  Wind- 
Flower  for  these  races. 

"And  if  I  get  shelved  with  an  attack  of  sciatica,  there's 
the  end  of  it!"  he  growled.  "It  nipped  me  once  before, 
in  Canada,  so  I  know  the  strength  of  its  cursed  fangs." 

Amaldi,  finding  that  he  would  have  to  endure  more 
than  a  good  deal  of  Chesney's  company,  unless  he  devised 
some  mitigation,  had  introduced  him  to  several  friends  of 
his — keen  yachtsmen,  members  of  the  R.  V.  Y.  C.  (Royal 
Verbano  Yacht  Club),  an  offshoot  of  the  R.  I.  Y.  C.  This 
club  has  no  seat,  and  its  funds  are  devoted  to  prizes.  It 
meets  at  Stresa,  in  a  room,  always  gratuitously  provided 
by  the  Hotel  des  Isles  Barromees.  There  Amaldi  took 
Chesney.  The  latter  was  much  pleased  with  these  Italian 
devotees  of  le  sport,  though  he  was  also  vastly  tickled  by 
some  things  about  them.  For  instance,  he  could  not  get 
over  the  fact  that,  while  they  were  one  and  all  very  well 
dressed  in  London  clothes,  three  at  least  of  them  wore 
evening  pumps  with  their  yachting  flannels,  and  one  kept 
gloves  on  all  the  time,  and  even  shook  hands  in  them. 
That  they  spoke  such  excellent  English  struck  him  as 
astonishing.  He  had  thought  Amaldi  an  exception. 

So  Chesney  was  invited  to  sail  also  in  other  yachts,  and 
Amaldi  was  relieved  from  such  incessant  contact  with  him. 
However,  he  found  it  impossible,  with  civility,  to  decline 
all  his  invitations  to  lunch  and  dine  at  Villa  Rianca.  In 
this  way  he  saw  even  more  of  Sophy  than  he  had  hitherto 
done.  But  seeing  her  in  this  way  was  more  painful  to 
him  than  not  seeing  her  at  all.  He  longed  for  the  time 
to  come  when  they  would  leave  Lago  Maggiore.  And 
Sophy  talked  very  little  when  the  two  men  were  present. 


226  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

"I  thought  you  liked  Amaldi?"  Chesney  said  one  day, 
looking  at  her  rather  keenly. 

"I  do,"  said  Sophy.  "Very  much,"  she  added,  feeling 
that  the  coldness  of  her  tone  might  seem  singular. 

"Well,  upon  my  soul,  no  one  would  guess  it,"  he  re 
torted,  rather  crossly.  Those  pains  were  beginning  to 
irritate  him  again.  "Sometimes  I  wonder  that  he  comes 
here  at  all — you're  so  confoundedly  glacial  and  snubby  in 
your  manner  to  him. ' ' 

"I?  ...  'Snubby'  to  Marchese  Amaldi?"  asked  Sophy, 
really  surprised. 

"Yes,  by  Gad!  Just  that,"  said  Chesney.  "You  never 
open  your  lips  to  him  if  you  can  help  it.  You  sail  out  of 
the  room  for  the  least  excuse — and  stay  out.  The  other 
night,  at  dinner,  he  asked  you  a  question  and  you  didn't 
even  answer  him." 

"I  didn't  hear  him  .  .  .  really  I  didn't,  Cecil."  Sophy 
felt  much  distressed.  Could  Amaldi  think  that  she  meant 
to  be  "glacial"  and  "snubby"  to  him? 

"I'm  very  sorry.     I  do  like  him  sincerely,"  she  added. 

Cecil  was  in  a  really  bad  humour.  That  right  leg  of  his, 
from  the  hip  down,  hurt  like  the  devil ! 

"And  the  way  you  refused  to  sing  when  I  asked  you 
after  dinner,  that  same  evening,  was  downright  rude!"  he 
fumed  on.  "You'd  been  singing  for  me  every  evening 
that  week — I  'd  told  the  poor  devil  so.  Fancy  how  he  must 
have  felt,  when  you  minced  out:  'Not  this  evening,  please, 
Cecil.'  : 

To  her  intense  dismay,  Sophy  felt  herself  flushing.  She 
had  excused  herself  from  singing  because  Amaldi  had  never 
heard  her  sing  and  she  had  felt  that  it  would  be  sad  and 
painful  to  sing  before  him  for  the  first  time  under  these 
circumstances.  She  knew  how  much  he  liked  music.  He 
had  said  once  in  her  presence  that  he  thought  a  contralto 
voice  the  most  beautiful  of  all.  She  did  not  want  to  sing 
for  Amaldi  at  her  husband's  bidding,  and  a  slightly  re 
laxed  throat  had  made  her  feel  that  she  could  refuse  rea 
sonably.  Now  this  flush  added  to  her  distress. 

"You  know,  Cecil,  I  explained  that  I  had  a  sore  throat," 
she  murmured.  "I  am  sure  the  Marchese  didn't  think  I 
meant  to  be  rude." 

"Well,  I  hope  you'll  have  recovered  from  your  sore 
throat  by  the  next  time  I  ask  him  here,"  said  Chesney 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  227 

drily.  "It's  annoying  to  have  one's  wife  even  seem  dis 
courteous  to  one's  friends.  Have  you  any  more  of  that 
stuff  you  gave  me  yesterday  ? "  he  wound  up.  ' '  I  took  the 
last  tablet  two  hours  ago,  and  my  leg's  cutting  up  hell 
again. ' ' 

"Won't  you  see  Doctor  Camenis,  Cecil?  Do.  Let  him 
come  here,  or  see  him  some  time  when  you're  in  Stresa. 
I  don't  like  giving  you  so  much  phenacetine.  It's  so  de 
pressing — so  bad  on  one 's  heart. ' ' 

"Oh,  damn  doctors!"  he  said  impatiently.  "Get  me 
the  stuff,  can 't  you  ? ' ' 

But  when  she  came  back  with  it,  he  looked  ashamed  of 
himself. 

' '  Sorry  if  I  was  rude,  Sophy, ' '  he  said ;  ' '  but  I  've  had 
just  about  as  much  doctoring  as  I  can  stand  for  the  pres 
ent." 

This  was  the  only  allusion  that  he  had  made  to  his  ex 
perience  with  Carfew  since  his  arrival  in  Italy.  Sophy 
thought  it  most  natural.  She  could  imagine  the  horror 
and  loathing  with  which  he  looked  back  on  those  two 
months  in  the  sanatorium. 

Next  day,  however,  he  came  to  her  quite  meekly. 

"Just  give  me  that  doctor  chap's  address  in  Stresa,  will 
you?"  he  said.  "This  damnable  leg  is  getting  too  much 
for  me." 

Dr.  Camenis  wanted  Chesney  to  go  to  bed  for  forty- 
eight  hours  and  take  large  doses  of  salicylate  of  soda. 
Chesney  said  that  he  would  take  the  stuff,  but  refused  to 
go  to  bed. 

"In  that  case,  Signore, "  said  Camenis  firmly,  "I  can 
not  prescribe  salicylate  of  sodium.  It  produces  heavy  per 
spiration.  You  would  probably  increase  this  attack  of 
sciatica. ' ' 

Chesney  said  very  well,  to  give  him  the  prescription  and 
he'd  promise  not  to  take  it  unless  he  went  to  bed  for  two 
days. 

He  had  gone  to  Stresa  that  day  by  one  of  the  Lake 
Steamers.  By  the  time  he  returned  to  Intra,  he  was  in 
severe  pain.  Camenis  had  said  that  he  could  suggest  no 
palliative  but  opium  in  some  form,  and  he  was  averse  from 
prescribing  anodynes  except  in  extreme  cases.  As  he 
came  up  the  slant  of  the  embarcadero,  Chesney  had  actual 
difficulty  in  walking.  His  face  was  flushed  with  that  drill- 


228  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

ing  anguish  in  his  sciatic  nerve.  He  limped  across  to  the 
Piazza.  At  once  the  vetturini  waiting  there  on  the  boxes 
of  their  rusty  little  traps  began  to  hail  him.  One  red- 
faced,  grey-eyed  fellow  shouted  out: 

"He!     Meester!     I  drive  you  Villa  Bianca — nef" 

But  Chesney,  leaning  heavily  on  his  stick,  had  his  eyes 
fixed  on  a  sign  that  ran  along  the  front  of  a  shop  just 
across  the  way.  "Farmacia  Lavatelli/'  it  read.  His  heart 
was  thumping  hard  with  a  bolt-like  thought  that  had  just 
struck  him.  He  had  set  his  teeth.  The  vetturino,  his 
scampish  grey  eyes  looking  white  like  glass  in  his  dark-red 
face,  drove  nearer. 

"I  drive  you  at  Villa  Bianca  quveek,  sir,"  he  said.  "I 
spik  Engleesh.  Liva  Noo  York  two  year.  I  name  John. 
You  wanta  me  drive  you,  ne?" 

Chesney  glanced  around  writh  a  start ;  then  clambered 
painfully  into  the  carrozzella. 

The  man  gave  his  old  screw  a  flick,  it  started  forward  in 
a  gallant  shamble. 

' '  Hold  on ! "  cried  Chesney. 

The  vetturino  nearly  drew  the  poor  nag  onto  its 
haunches. 

' ' lie  ?    What 's  it  ? "  he  asked. 

Chesney  pointed  with  his  stick  at  Lavatelli 's  sign. 

"Is  that  a  good  chemist's?"  he  asked. 

"lie?"  said  the  vetturino,  glancing  where  the  stick 
pointed.  "You  say  Lavatelli — is  he  good?" 

"Yes,"  said  Chesney. 

"Veree  good,"  said  John  cheerfully.  "Lavatelli  he  all 
right.  Caccia  he  good,  too.  You  want  go  there?" 

Chesney  hesitated  an  instant ;  the  blood  rushed  to  his 
face,  then  ebbed. 

"Yes.  Drive  there,"  he  said,  throwing  himself  back 
against  the  greasy  seat  and  clenching  his  teeth.  A  pang 
like  the  throb  of  a  red-hot  piston  had  shot  from  the  joint 
of  his  ankle  to  his  hip.  His  muscles  drew  with  the  anguish 
of  it. 

"Where  I  must  go — Lavatelli  or  Caccia?"  asked  the 
vetturino. 

"There,"  said  Chesney,  indicating  the  shop  opposite. 
Somewhere  behind  those  gilt-lettered  windows  was  relief 
ready  to  his  hand.  He  had  determined  very  seriously  to 
tamper  no  more  with  morphia,  but  agony  such  as  he  was 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  229 

enduring  at  this  moment  certainly  justified  him  in  making 
an  exception  to  his  self-imposed  rule.  Besides,  he  was  no 
sottish  weakling,  who  could  not  trust  himself  to  take  one 
moderate  dose  of  morphia  without  risking  the  danger  of  a 
renewal  of  the  habit.  Of  course,  old  Carfew  would  howl 
blue  ruin  at  the  mere  idea.  Sophy  would  be  horrified. 
Anne  Harding  would  lash  him  with  her  prickly  tongue. 
.  .  .  Well,  thank  the  Lord,  there  was  no  need  of  taking 
them  into  his  confidence !  One,  or  perhaps  two,  moderate 
doses — that  was  all.  He  could  take  it  by  mouth.  He 
would  go  to  bed — sleep  it  off.  No  one  would  be  the  wiser. 
But  he  would  be  relieved  of  this  maddening  "tooth-ache" 
in  his  leg.  He  might  even  try  that  old  Italian  prig's 
remedy,  afterwards — do  the  thing  up  thoroughly  while  he 
was  about  it. 

As  the  vetturino  drove  across  the  street,  Chesney  got  out 
his  pocketbook.  His  fingers  slid  as  from  habit  to  a  little 
fiap  on  the  inside  of  the  case.  As  he  felt  the  paper  that 
he  was  in  search  of  under  his  fingers,  a  queer  thrill  ran 
through  him.  He  started,  flushing.  This  thrill  had  been 
one  of  exultation;  at  the  same  time  he  had  a  sense  of  guilt. 
What  rot!  He  was  a  responsible  being — independent — he 
had  a  brain.  What  was  it  for  if  not  to  guide  him  in  just 
such  cases  as  this?  He  had  endured  this  grinding  pain 
for  a  week  now — had  only  slept  in  wretched  snatches  for 
seven  whole  nights.  Why  should  he  feel  that  absurd, 
little-boy  sense  of  guilt  because  he  was  going  to  provide 
himself  with  a  good  night's  rest? 

When  the  man  drew  up  before  the  chemist's  shop,  Ches 
ney  sat  for  a  moment  reading  over  the  prescription  in  his 
hand.  Yes,  it  was  perfectly  preserved — quite  legible.  It 
was  a  prescription  for  soluble  tablets  of  morphia  for  hypo 
dermic  use — one  grain  of  morphia,  one  one-hundred-and- 
fiftieth  of  a  grain  of  atropine.  The  atropine  was  to  pre 
vent  nausea.  How  cursedly  dry  it  made  one 's  mouth ! 
That  was  the  drawback  to  atropine.  But  it  was  better 
than  nausea.  And  still  he  sat  there  fingering  the  prescrip 
tion — something  holding  him  back — something  more  im 
perious  than  reason.  His  reasons  appeared  all  excellent 
and  logical  to  himself;  yet  this  something  refused  them — 
said:  "Not  so.  ...  Not  so" — with  the  iteration  of  steady 
clockwork.  Also,  as  often  happens  when  one  is  sure  of 
relief,  that  hot  drilling  in  his  leg  had  ceased  completely. 


230 

Without  the  excuse  of  that  anguish,  it  seemed  in  a  flash 
monstrous,  even  to  him,  that  he  should  be  sitting  there  in 
the  lovely  Italian  sunshine  before  Lavatelli's,  after  all  the 
horrors  of  the  past  months  and  years,  deliberately  contem 
plating  purchasing  and  taking  a  dose  of  morphia.  He 
slipped  the  prescription  suddenly  back  into  his  pocketbook 
and  put  it  away. 

' '  Villa  Bianca ! "  he  called  sharply  to  the  vetturino. 

The  man  caught  up  the  reins  again,  again  smacked  the 
old  bay's  quarters  with  his  whip.  They  started  at  a  splay 
ing  trot  towards  Ghiffa.  But  before  they  reached  the 
Intra  post-office,  the  fierce  pain  had  again  gripped  him. 
He  was  ashamed  to  tell  the  man  to  go  back  to  Lavatelli's. 
With  his  stick  he  tapped  John's  shoulder. 

"What  did  you  say  was  the  name  of  the  other  chemist's 
shop  .  .  .  Pharmacy  .  .  .  Whatever-you-call-it  .  .  .?"  he 
asked. 

"Pharmacia?     lie?" 

"Yes;  the  other  one." 

"Caccia?     All  right,  I  go  at  Caccia." 

He  turned  round  and  drove  to  another  chemist's,  this 
time  in  a  farther  Piazza.  It  took  about  four  minutes. 
Chesney  got  out  and  entered  the  shop.  The  keen,  medici 
nal  smell  of  the  place  brought  the  past  in  a  gust  upon  him. 
He  took  the  old  prescription  again  from  his  pocketbook. 
It  was  stamped  with  the  names  of  various  chemists  where 
it  had  been  filled  before. 

"I  am  suffering  severely  with  sciatica,"  he  said,  in  a 
casual  tone,  to  the  clerk  who  took  the  prescription  from 
him.  "I  need  sleep  very  badly.  I  only  want  enough  mor 
phia  for  two  doses — well,  perhaps  three  would  be  better,  as 
the  pain  might  not  yield  easily." 

The  clerk  said:  "Si,  Signore,"  and  went  to  consult  a 
senior  member  of  the  firm.  He  returned  and  said  re 
spectfully  : 

"I  am  sorry,  Signore.  We  do  not  keep  Sulfato  di  Mor 
phia  in  this  form." 

Chesney  flushed  and  paled  rapidly  as  he  had  done  in  the 
cab  outside. 

"Do  you  mean  you  refuse  to  sell  me  even  one  or  two 
doses?"  he  asked  haughtily. 

The  clerk  looked  admiringly  and  a  little  timidly  at  his 
immense,  angry  customer. 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  231 

"Prego,  Signer e — but  not  at  all,"  he  said.  "We  will 
sell  it  to  you.  This  is  a  good  prescription — good  firms 
have  filled  it  before.  It  is  only  that  we  have  not  the  mor 
phia  in  tablets — but  in  solution.  And  we  have  it  not  with 
the  atropia. " 

"Ah!"  said  Chesney.  His  face  relaxed.  ""Well,  show 
me  the  kind  you  have, ' '  he  said  curtly,  but  not  uncivilly. 

The  clerk  brought  a  little  cardboard  box  divided  into 
cells.  These  cells,  which  were  lined  with  cotton-wool,  each 
held  a  small  glass  globule  filled  with  a  solution  of  morphia 
and  sealed  at  one  end  with  wax. 

"It  is  safer  so,  Signore.  One  escapes  to  infect  oneself. 
One  breaks  the  seal  and  fills  the  hypodermic  siringa  direct 
from  these  little  globules." 

Chesney  was  silent  for  a  second,  gazing  at  the  little 
transparent  amphorae  that  held  Nepenthe.  Then  he  said : 

"Do  you  keep  hypodermic  syringes?  I  have  broken 
mine." 

He  winced  as  the  unnecessary  lie  escaped  him.  It  made 
things  more  plausible,  but  need  not  have  been  uttered. 
Untruth  seemed  somehow  the  inevitable  attendant  of  mor 
phia,  even  when  innocently  indulged  in  as  he  was  now 
about  to  do.  Yet  all  this  time  his  pulse  was  racing.  The 
clang  of  the  little  bell  attached  to  the  door  of  the  phar 
macy,  that  rang  when  customers  went  in  or  out,  made  him 
start  and  glance  round  each  time  that  it  sounded.  .  .  . 

He  went  out  and  got  again  into  the  carrozzella.  In  his 
pocket  were  three  of  the  little  globules  and  a  shining  new 
hypodermic  syringe  in  a  black  Morocco  case. 

"Villa  Bianca!"  he  said. 

The  vetturino  glanced  up,  struck  by  the  new,  firm  ring 
in  his  voice. 

"They  must  have  given  him  some  devil  of  a  good  medi 
cine  in  there,"  he  thought.  "He's  another  man,  per 
Bacco!" 

This  time  the  patient  screw  shambled  on  to  the  gates  of 
Villa  Bianca  without  check. 


XXXVIII 

HE  was  very  cautious  about  this  dose  of  morphia.     He  felt 
that  he  must  guard  in  every  possible   way   against  the 


232  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

nausea  that  might  follow  it,  thus  taken  without  atropine. 
Sophy  was  pleased  and  surprised  to  hear  that  he  had  seen 
Camenis,  and  still  more  surprised  when  he  said  that  he 
was  going  to  bed  at  once,  and  would  she  be  a  dear  girl  and 
read  aloud  to  him.  He  was  looking  forward  with  a  half- 
shamed  excitement  to  the  luxury  of  relief  and  stimulation 
which  he  knew  the  morphia,  so  long  refrained  from,  would 
give  him  to  a  superlative  degree.  But  he  knew  also  that 
it  would  be  apt  to  make  him  garrulous.  He  did  not  want 
to  talk.  He  was  afraid  of  "giving  himself  away"  some 
how.  So  he  asked  Sophy  to  read  aloud  because  he  did  not 
want  to  be  alone  either.  It  would  intensify  that  sensa 
tion  of  blissful  bien  etre  which  lay  just  ahead  of  him  to 
have  some  one  near.  This  feeling  was  akin  to  that  with 
which  a  child,  cosily  in  bed,  regards  its  nurse  sewing  be 
side  a  shaded  lamp. 

Yes;  he  would  go  to  bed,  take  the  morphia,  and  then, 
later,  the  salicylate  of  soda.  Two  days  of  it  would  knock 
out  the  sciatica,  that  old  doctor  had  said.  Well — the  mor 
phia  would  keep  him  from  being  bored,  in  addition  to 
easing  his  pain.  One  was  never  bored  while  under  the 
effects  of  morphia.  He  would  take  one  dose  now,  sleep  off 
the  bad  effects.  Then,  next  day,  take  the  other  in  the  same 
way.  The  third — well,  it  depended  on  how  he  would  be 
feeling  whether  he  took  the  third  dose  or  not. 

Sophy  sent  Luigi  to  kindle  a  fire  in  his  bedroom  before 
she  would  let  him  undress  there.  The  Mareng,  as  the 
Scirocco  is  called  on  Lago  Maggiore,  had  been  blowing  all 
day.  Now  a  fine  drizzle  had  begun  to  fall.  As  she  went 
to  find  the  book  that  Cecil  had  asked  her  to  read  aloud,  she 
thought  of  how  odd  it  was  that  his  illnesses  should  always 
be  associated  in  her  mind  with  rainy  weather.  And  the 
weather  had  been  so  glorious  nearly  all  the  time,  until  now. 
Some  splendid  Temporali — the  crashing  thunder-storms 
of  that  region — had  come  in  July  and  August.  But  there 
had  been  no  steady,  sullen  rain  such  as  was  now  falling. 

As  for  Chesney,  he  congratulated  himself  on  having  this 
acute  attack  just  at  this  time.  The  Mareng,  Luigi  told 
him,  would  not  last  more  than  two  or  three  days.  The 
Wind-Flower  was  at  Taroni's  having  her  bottom  scraped 
for  the  races. 

As  soon  as  he  was  rid  of  this  deuced  pain,  he  would  go 
and  look  up  a  rowboat.  lie  needed  exercise.  There  were 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  233 

good  boats,  cheaper  than  elsewhere,  Amaldi  had  said,  at  a 
little  village  called  Cerro,  on  the  other  side  of  the  Lake. 

When  Luigi  had  kindled  the  fire,  he  went  up  to  his  bed 
room  and  closed  and  locked  the  door.  The  blaze  from 
dried  roots  and  scraps  of  wood  looked  very  jolly  tucked 
away  in  the  corner  like  that.  He  glanced  at  the  fine 
strands  of  rain  outside  his  window,  and  the  soggy  brown 
of  the  balcony  beyond,  and  thought  the  contrast  only  made 
the  fire  seem  jollier. 

Then  he  took  off  his  coat,  spread  a  fresh  towel  on  the 
bed,  and  laid  out  the  hypodermic  syringe  and  one  of  the 
glass  globules  upon  it.  There  was  one  instant  when,  as  he 
stood  with  the  syringe  poised  above  the  opened  capsule,  a 
strange  impulse  came  over  him.  He  thought:  "What  if  I 
throw  all  this  stuff  into  the  fire?  Just  go  to  bed,  take  the 
salicylate — 'grin  and  bear  it'?"  His  heart  beat  violently. 
Then,  with  a  sudden  gesture,  he  thrust  the  nose  of  the 
syringe  into  the  capsule,  and  drew  the  piston  up  till  the 
cylinder  was  filled  with  the  colourless  liquid.  Each  dose 
of  the  solution  held  half  a  grain  of  morphia.  He  screwed 
the  needle  into  place — pushed  up  his  shirt-sleeve.  .  .  .  An 
other  instant  and  the  needle  was  home  in  his  flesh.  He 
pressed  the  piston  gently  down — withdrew  the  needle,  and 
rubbed  the  puncture  with  a  bit  of  cotton  soaked  in  spirit. 
Then  he  cleaned  the  syringe,  put  a  wire  through  the 
needle,  locked  all  away  into  his  travelling-bag,  and,  after 
setting  the  door  slightly  ajar,  undressed  and  got  into  bed. 
In  two  minutes  the  little  clutch  at  his  midriff  told  him 
that  the  morphia  was  at  its  work.  .  .  .  Then  he  called  to 
Sophy.  And  as  he  lay  there  with  slow  bliss  stealing  over 
him,  and  heard  her  light  step  coming  up  the  stair,  he  justi 
fied  his  action  to  himself  with  persistent  and  plausible  re 
iteration.  The  pain  was  already  lessening — he  felt  tender 
and  affectionate  towards  Sophy — longed  to  talk  to  her.  But 
he  kept  saying  to  himself:  "No,  no — I  must  not.  I  must 
not,  on  any  account."  So  he  only  smiled  at  her  and 
moved  his  head  against  the  pillow  in  assent,  when  she 
asked  if  he  felt  easier,  warm  in  bed  like  this.  When  she 
sat  down  in  a  low  chair  beside  the  bed  and  began  to  read, 
he  reached  out  and  took  her  free  hand,  holding  it,  playing 
with  her  rings — that  vague  smile  still  on  his  face. 

The  rain  fell  faster  and  faster — it  became  a  heavy  down 
pour,  rattling  on  the  magnolia  leaves  outside  and  veiling 


234  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

the  more  distant  trees.  Sophy  read  until  he  seemed  dozing 
— then  went  down  to  her  lonely  dinner  in  the  ugly  little 
dining-room.  Somehow  she  felt  strangely  depressed.  The 
Mareng  seemed  to  have  soaked  into  her  very  soul. 

Chesney  stayed  in  bed  three  days.  He  took  all  the  mor 
phia,  but  he  also  took  the  salicylate  prescribed  by  Cam- 
enis.  He  suffered  a  good  deal  from  nausea;  but  when  he 
got  up  again,  on  the  morning  of  the  fourth  day,  his  attack 
of  sciatica  was  entirely  over.  He  felt  abominably  weak, 
though.  On  the  second  day,  he  had  sent  Luigi  to  Pallanza 
to  buy  some  good  Cognac — a  small  glass  of  this  revived 
him.  He  scrupulously  avoided  taking  more  than  a  small 
quantity  at  a  time.  He  did  not  for  a  moment  intend  to 
lapse  into  his  old  habits. 

But  after  he  had  been  about  for  two  days,  back  came  the 
sciatic  pains.  He  grumbled  savagely.  The  Mareng  had 
ceased.  The  Maggiore  seemed  kindling  the  heavens  with 
its  clear,  fierce  blast.  The  sun  would  have  been  hot  as  in 
August  but  for  the  wind.  There  seemed  no  earthly  reason 
for  the  return  of  the  sciatica.  He  must  get  rid  of  this 
nuisance  before  the  races,  by  hook  or  by  crook.  He  shrank 
from  the  idea  of  taking  more  morphia  in  its  Italian  form. 
The  nausea  had  been  too  wearing.  Besides,  he  did  not 
wish  to  go  to  Caccia's  a  second  time  for  it.  It  occurred  to 
him  to  take  the  motor-boat  and  run  over  to  Stresa.  The 
first  chemist  there  would  probably  have  English  or  Ameri 
can  preparations  of  the  drug.  He  succeeded  in  finding  a 
little  case  of  an  American  preparation  of  morphia  and 
atropine.  But  he  was  still  extremely  cautious,  not  only  in 
regard  to  others,  but  about  himself.  Such  doses  as  he  took 
were  very  small  (he  would  cut  the  tablets  in  half  with  his 
penknife — carefully  burning  the  blade  first  in  a  candle- 
flame).  And  he  always  took  them  at  bedtime,  so  that  by 
the  next  morning  the  extreme  dryness  of  his  mouth  would 
have  passed.  The  pain  kept  nagging  him.  And  in  the 
intervals  between  the  doses  of  morphia  that  hateful  weak 
ness  came  over  him.  He  began  to  drink  Cognac  regularly 
with  his  meals.  This  worried  Sophy — she  could  not  think 
so  much  brandy  good  for  him.  At  her  suggestion  he  bought 
some  Scotch  whiskey  in  Pallanza.  But  the  smooth,  oily 
liquor,  tempered  by  soda,  was  not  what  he  wanted.  It  was 
even  distasteful  to  him.  What  he  craved  was  the  keen 
bite  of  the  raw  brandy  in  his  stomach  and  blood. 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  235 

He  grew  very  irritable  at  times,  under  the  double  stress 
of  the  intermittent  pain,  and  the  desire  for  larger  doses  of 
morphia  than  he  dared  take.  His  extreme  caution  would 
not  let  him  continue  drinking  the  Cognac  at  meals,  since 
Sophy  had  objected  to  it.  It  might  make  her  suspect 
something.  So  he  fell  into  the  way  of  taking  a  glass  here 
and  there,  wherever  he  chanced  to  be,  at  some  cafe  in  Intra 
or  Pallanza,  or  even  in  Ghiffa. 

He  did  not  find  Amaldi  so  companionable,  either,  since 
he  had  been  suffering  in  this  way. 

''Rather  a  wooden  chap,  that  Amaldi,  when  one  comes 
to  see  more  of  him, ' '  he  said  to  Sophy. 

One  evening,  when  Amaldi  chanced  to  be  at  Villa  Bianca, 
Chesney  again  asked  his  wife  to  sing.  She  went  at  once  to 
the  piano.  Amaldi  sat  leaning  forward,  looking  down  at 
his  hands,  which  were  clasped  loosely  between  his  knees. 
Chesney  kept  glancing  towards  him  vexedly  all  the  time 
that  Sophy  was  singing.  Amaldi 's  expression  was  rather 
"wooden." 

"Sing  that  Grieg  thing,"  Chesney  had  said.  She  sang 
Solweg's  song  from  the  Peer  Gynt  series.  It  seemed  to 
Amaldi  that  he  could  not  bear  it,  when  the  voice  of  the 
woman  he  loved  poured  over  him  in  that  soft  wave 
of  heart-break.  His  face  looked  ever  more  and  more 
' '  wooden ' '  as  she  sang  on.  When  she  stopped  and  Chesney 
fixed  his  eyes  on  the  other  man  with  that  sort  of  irritated 
challenge  in  them,  Amaldi  said  in  a  cut-and-dried  tone: 
4 '  Thanks.  It  was  most  beautiful. ' ' 

Chesney  couldn't  get  over  it  for  the  rest  of  the  evening. 
He  mimicked  Amaldi 's  tone  and  manner  to  Sophy  again 
and  again. 

' '  Damned  constipated  mind  the  fellow 's  got,  by  God ! ' ' 
he  said.  "He  hears  for  the  first  time  a  great  imperial- 
purple  voice  like  yours,  and  all  he  says  is:  'Thanks;  most 
beautiful.'  Why  didn't  he  say:  'Very  nice,'  and  have 
done  with  it!" 

Sophy  shivered  at  his  ever-increasing  irritability.  Some 
times  she  thought  the  gentle  Luigi  would  surely  burst  into 
flame  under  Cecil's  fierce  cursings  and  depart  forthwith; 
but  the  little  man  merely  looked  stolid,  as  if  slightly  deaf, 
on  these  occasions.  She  thought  that  Lombards,  whether 
noble  or  peasant,  had  singular  self-control,  for  something 
in  the  little  Milanese 's  manner  under  provocation  reminded 


236 

her  vaguely  of  Amaldi.  Then  one  day  she  heard  him  re 
mark  to  Maria,  the  cook,  who  also  seemed  astonished  at 
his  patience : 

"Cosa  te  voeuretf  L'e  matt  quel  diavol  d'un  milord. 
E  quella  bella  sciora  I'e  tanto  bona."  (What '11  you  have? 
He's  mad,  this  devil  of  a  milord,  and  his  lovely  lady  is  so 
good ! ) 

One  afternoon  Amaldi  called  to  tell  Chesney  that  The 
Wind-Flower  was  in  the  water  again.  He  found  Sophy 
alone  on  the  terrace.  She  was  sewing  on  a  little  blouse 
for  Bobby,  who  had  worn  out  most  of  his  wardrobe.  She 
loved  making  his  little  fineries  herself.  Amaldi  was  more 
natural  in  his  manner  that  afternoon.  It  wras  long  since 
he  had  seen  her  alone.  Sophy  had  recovered  from  the 
first  shock  of  her  husband 's  return ;  she  also  felt  more 
natural.  Before  long  she  was  talking  to  Amaldi  almost 
eagerly.  She  had  been  thinking  of  her  far-away  home  in 
Virginia  when  he  arrived.  She  ran  to  fetch  some  photo 
graphs  of  it  to  show  him.  Chesney  was  away  in  the  moto'r- 
boat — at  Stresa,  she  believed.  .  .  .  But  at  that  moment 
Chesney  was  driving  back  from  Pallanza,  having  left  the 
motor  there  to  be  mended.  It  had  broken  down  just  before 
he  reached  the  embarcadero,  and  he  had  been  obliged  to 
row  ashore.  He  was  in  an  evil  temper.  His  leg  was  "drill 
ing"  again,  and  he  had  had  two  glasses  of  Cognac  within 
an  hour. 

When  he  reached  the  lower  terrace  he  looked  up  and  saw 
Sophy  and  Amaldi  bending  together  over  the  photographs 
like  two  children  over  a  picture-book.  She  was  talking 
eagerly,  looking  often  at  Amaldi.  There  was  a  pretty 
flush  on  her  face.  Her  grey  eyes  sparkled.  .  .  .  Chesney 
\vas  so  gruff  in  manner  that  Amaldi  went  almost  imme 
diately.  Sophy  sat  gazing  at  her  husband  with  a  puzzled 
expression.  She  had  not  yet  realised  that  Chesney  had 
taken  a  dislike  to  Amaldi  as  sudden  as  his  first  liking. 

' '  Well,  I  must  say  you  're  making  up  for  lost  time ! "  he 
threw  out  roughly. 

"How?"  she  asked,  astonished,  not  getting  his  meaning. 

"Why,  a  week  ago  you  hadn't  a  word  to  throw  that 
chap;  now  you  palaver  with  him  like  an  old  crony." 

Sophy  reddened  with  anger. 

"Please  don't  speak  to  me  in  this  way,"  she  said  coldly. 

He  reddened,  too. 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  237 

"You  speak  to  Amaldi  as  you  damn  please — I'll  speak 
to  you  as  I  damn  please,"  he  said. 

"No,"  said  Sophy,  "for  I  shan't  stay  to  listen  to  you." 

And  she  gathered  up  the  photographs  and  went  into  the 
house  with  her  head  high. 

"Women  are  the  devil!"  said  Chesney,  scowling  after 
her.  "Women  are  the  devil!"  he  repeated,  flinging  him 
self  morosely  into  a  chair,  and  gazing  down  at  the  out 
stretched  leg  which  ached  so  infernally.  Then  he  rose, 
went  upstairs  and  injected  a  fourth  of  a  grain  of  morphia 
into  it.  He  sent  word  that  he  would  not  be  down  to  din 
ner.  At  twelve  o  'clock  that  night,  he  took  another  fourth. 


XXXIX 

CHESNEY  was  very  much  on  his  guard  for  two  days  after 
that.  The  pain  in  his  leg  was  better.  He  took  no  more 
morphia,  until  just  before  day  on  the  third  morning.  The 
sciatica  had  again  roused  him  with  its  fierce  stabs.  But  he 
took  a  very  moderate  dose — only  the  eighth  of  a  grain.  A 
cup  of  black  coffee  before  going  down  to  breakfast  steadied 
him.  He  lay  on  a  wicker  chair  in  the  sunshine  all  the 
morning — reading  between  dozes.  He  looked  very  pale. 
Sophy  felt  sorry  for  him,  although  she  was  still  indignant 
at  the  way  he  had  spoken  to  her  about  Amaldi. 

He  ate  a  light  lunch  and  drank  two  more  cups  of  lye- 
like  coffee  after  it.  He  felt  so  much  better  that  he  asked 
her  to  come  with  him  to  Cerro. 

"I'm  going  to  hire  a  rowboat,"  he  explained.  "We'll 
go  trolling  together — I'll  row  and  you  can  fish.  Come 
along.  It's  a  jolly  day — not  too  hot." 

But  Sophy  said  that  she  had  ordered  a  carrozzella  to  go 
shopping  in  Intra  for  Bobby.  "I  must  get  some  autumn 
things  ready  for  him,"  she  said.  "I  brought  so  few  clothes. 
And  this  warm  weather  won't  last  much  longer." 

Chesney  felt  a  spurt  of  anger,  as  she  made  this  excuse 
for  not  going  with  him.  He  had  taken  a  glass  of  Cognac, 
after  Sophy  had  left  the  dining-room.  The  wearing  out  of 
the  morphia  left  him  irritable,  and  the  brandy  whipped 
this  irritation.  He  tried  hard  to  keep  himself  in  hand. 
He  really  wanted  her  to  come  with  him  very  much. 

"Do  come,"  he  said.    "Let  the  Italian  woman — let  Rosa 


238  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

go  for  the  boy's  things.  She  must  know  exactly  what  to 
buy  for  children.  Do — there's  a  good  girl — 

"No — really,  Cecil — I  couldn't  explain  to  her.  She's 
very  stupid  about  such  things.  And  Bobby  simply  must 
have  warmer  clothes  ready. ' ' 

' '  By  George !  I  don 't  believe  you  want  to  come !  I  be 
lieve  you're  just  putting  me  off  with  a  lot  of  bally  excuses, 
because  you  don't  want  to  be  with  me,"  he  said,  glowering 
at  her. 

Sophy  coloured  a  little.  It  was  true  that  she  did  not 
want  to  go  with  him.  She  saw  too  plainly  the  ugly  mood 
that  was  gathering  in  him,  and  would  probably  break  into 
a  storm  of  hectoring  before  night.  But,  on  the  other  hand, 
she  really  felt  it  necessary  to  see  at  once  about  those  warm 
things  for  Bobby.  lie  caught  cold  so  easily.  The  Mar- 
chesa  had  warned  her  that  the  weather  was  apt  to  change 
suddenly  in  October. 

"Do  you  come  or  do  you  not?"  asked  Chesney  sharply, 
watching  her. 

"I  can't  to-day,  Cecil,"  she  said  earnestly.  "If  you'll 
wait  till  to-morrow,  1 11  go  with  pleasure.  It  isn  't  kind  of 
you  to  take  it  like  this — as  if  I  wanted  to  vex  you." 

' '  Oh,  well ;  do  as  you  like ! "  he  said,  with  his  ugliest 
smile.  "I've  married  a  'femme  mere,'  it  seems.  Just  as 
well,  perhaps,  that  it  wasn't  a  'femme  courtisane.'  There 
might  have  been  ructions  sooner  or  later." 

He  turned  and  ran  down  the  steps  of  the  terrace.  He 
was  very  light  on  his  feet  for  so  big  a  man.  Sophy  stood 
watching,  while  Luigi  handed  him  his  overcoat  and  steadied 
the  launch  at  the  banchetta  while  he  got  in.  Then  she  saw 
him  dart  off  at  racing  speed  for  Cerro.  She  drew  a  breath 
of  relief  to  think  she  was  not  with  him.  It  was  then  one 
o'clock.  At  three  she  went  upstairs  to  change  her  tea- 
gown  for  the  drive  to  Intra.  As  she  was  putting  on  her 
hat,  Luigi  knocked  at  the  door  to  say  that  the  Marchese 
was  in  the  drawing-room.  She  went  down  at  once,  and 
found  that  Amaldi  had  come  to  bring  a  note  from  his 
mother  asking  Cecil  and  herself  to  lunch  at  Le  Vigne  the 
next  day.  She  said  that  they  would  be  glad  to  come — if 
her  husband  were  well  enough.  He  had  been  suffering  a 
good  deal  of  late.  While  they  were  talking,  Luigi  came 
again  to  say  that  the  carrozzella  was  waiting.  Amaldi  rose 
at  once,  but  she  said : 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  239 

"No — don't  hurry  away.  I'm  only  going  shopping.  I 
can  go  just  as  well  a  little  later. ' ' 

But  though  Araaldi  sat  down  again,  they  could  not  find 
the  pleasant,  natural  ease  of  their  other  talk  over  the  pho 
tographs  of  "  Sweet- Waters. "  There  was  a  constraint  on 
them  both.  Sophy  asked  about  the  Marchesa  and  the  au 
tumn  crops  at  Le  Vigne.  They  were  talking  in  this  rather 
forced,  desultory  fashion,  when  she  heard  Cecil's  step 
coming  fast  up  the  terrace  stairs. 

He,  in  the  meantime,  had  looked  in  vain  at  Cerro  for 
the  rowboat  that  he  wanted.  This,  of  course,  put  him  in 
a  still  worse  humour.  He  had  also  miscalculated  the 
duration  of  that  eighth  of  morphia  taken  in  the  early 
morning.  Its  effects  had  entirely  worn  off  by  two  o'clock. 
This  left  him  stranded  at  Cerro,  with  that  gone  feeling  of 
intense  weakness.  He  went  from  the  boat-yard  to  the 
little  osteria,  and  asked  for  Cognac.  Of  course  there  was 
none ;  but  the  Padrone,  who  spoke  a  sort  of  bastard  French, 
explained  that  they  had  the  most  excellent  Grappa.  In  his 
opinion,  Grappa  was  superior  to  all  the  Cognac  in  the 
world. 

"Q'est  ce  que  c'est  que  ce  sacre  'Grappa'?"  Chesney 
had  growled.  Then  the  Padrone  explained,  and  further 
illuminated  his  explanation  by  bringing  a  bottle  of  the 
clear  white,  fiery  liquor — one  of  the  fieriest  and  most  heady 
of  all  liquors — the  native  spirits  of  Italy  distilled  from 
the  must  of  grapes.  Chesney,  not  aware  of  its  strength, 
drank  several  glasses.  This  made  him  feel  so  much  more 
"fit"  that  he  drank  yet  another  before  leaving.  By  the 
time  he  was  halfway  across  the  lake  on  his  way  back,  his 
brain  was  in  flames  from  the  ardent  spirit.  He  found 
himself  clenching  his  teeth  till  his  jaw  ached,  in  a  spasm 
of  vague  rage  against  everything — every  one !  Then  he 
recalled  Sophy's  refusal  to  go  with  him — and  his  anger 
concentrated  on  her. 

When  he  ran  up  the  terrace  steps  at  Villa  Bianca,  fif 
teen  minutes  later,  he  was  half-blind  with  unreasoning 
fury.  Hearing  voices  in  the  drawing-room,  he  tore  open 
the  door  and  burst  in  on  Sophy  and  Amaldi.  The  Grappa 
had  made  his  face  dead-white  and  his  blue  eyes  black.  He 
looked  terrible,  towering  there,  glaring  at  them  speechless 
for  the  first  second.  Then  he  strode  forward  and  took 
Sophy  by  the  arm. 


240  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

"So  you  lied  to  me!"  he  said.  "You  lied  to  me!  You 
wanted  to  stay  here  alone  for  your ' 

Amaldi  also  took  a  step  forward.  His  face,  too,  was 
ghastly.  Chesney  whirled  on  him,  releasing  Sophy's  arm. 
She  fell  back  against  the  wall,  grasping  at  the  window  cur 
tain  for  support.  She  seemed  to  press  against  the  hard 
stone  of  the  wall,  as  though  trying  to  melt  into  it. 

Chesney,  his  head  lowered  between  his  shoulders,  roared 
at  Amaldi  like  the  bull  he  resembled. 

"You  damned  little  sneak,  get  out  of  here!  Out  of  this 
house!"  he  shouted. 

Amaldi  looked  him  in  the  eyes. 

"  'Charbonnier  est  maitre  chez  lui'  '''  (A  coal-heaver  is 
master  in  his  own  house),  he  said  icily.  "I  will  go.  But  I 
will  give  you  a  gentleman's  chance — I  will  send  you  my 
seconds." 

Chesney  vented  a  great  ' '  Ha ! "  of  utter,  insolent  de 
rision. 

"Why,  you  little  emasculated  Don  Juan You " 

he  spat  an  unmentionable  name — "d'you  think  I'd  fight 
one  of  your  tin-soldier  farces  with  you?  Clear  out!" 

"Coward!"  said  Amaldi,  in  that  same  low,  icy  voice. 

Then  Chesney,  inarticulate  with  rage,  lifted  his  walking- 
stick  and  rushed  on  him.  Amaldi  was  a  master  swords 
man.  With  his  own  stick  he  parried  the  other's  blows. 
Once,  twice,  thrice  he  parried ;  then,  suddenly,  by  a  quick, 
sharp  stroke  across  the  wrist,  disarmed  him. 

Chesney  stood  dazed  for  an  instant  by  the  unexpected 
ness  of  the  thing.  As  he  stood  thus,  Amaldi  left  the  room. 
But  even  as  he  did  so  Chesney  broke  from  his  trance  and 
leaped  after  him.  At  once  Sophy  had  her  arms  about  him. 
She  clung  desperately,  swinging  round  in  front  of  him, 
hanging  upon  him  with  all  her  weight  and  strength. 

"You  shall  not!  You  shall  not!"  she  kept  saying 
through  her  set  teeth. 

It  was  impossible  for  him  to  move  quickly  with  the  tall, 
frantic  woman  clinging  to  him,  adapting  herself  to  all  his 
movements  with  supple  instinct.  He  could  not  tear  him 
self  loose  from  her  without  hurting  her  brutally.  He  was 
not  so  lost  as  to  do  that.  At  last  he  caught  the  folds  of 
Sophy's  blouse  over  her  breast  in  a  fierce  grip,  dragged  her 
to  her  feet,  shook  her  to  and  fro  as  he  held  her.  His  whole 
face  was  a  distorted  snarl. 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  241 

' '  Be  quiet ! "  he  ground  out.  ' '  Keep  still !  Your  lover 's 
safe  .  .  .  for  this  time.  ..." 

She  panted,  wordless,  her  frenzied  eyes  pouring  loathing 
on  him. 

"Ay  .  .  .  look  at  me  as  if  I  were  a  toad  ...  a  horned 
toad."  He  grinned  convulsively.  "You've  made  me  one 
.  .  .  you  with  your  dirty  little  lover!" 

Sophy  got  her  breath.  She  was  beside  herself.  She 
tore  from  his  grasp,  leaving  some  of  the  light  trimming  of 
her  blouse  in  his  clenched  hand. 

"I  wish  he  were  my  lover!"  she  panted.  "I  wish  any 
one  were  my  lover.  Oh,  if  I  could  only  tell  you  that  I  had 
a  lover!  If  I  only  could!  Brute!  .  .  .  Coward!  ..." 

She  faced  him  quivering  with  detestation. 

The  dementia  of  hatred  in  her  wild  eyes  sobered  Ches- 
ney  for  an  instant. 

"Cut  that!"  he  said  sullenly.  "What  you've  got  to  do 
is  to  swear  to  me,  by  all  you  hold  sacred,  that  you  '11  never 
see  that  little  skunk  again.  Come — out  with  it ! " 

She  laughed. 

"Swear!"  he  cried  furiously,  "or  I'll  ...  I'll  ..." 
He  half-lifted  his  balled  fist. 

She  went  on  laughing. 

' '  Oh,  you  brute  ..."  she  whispered  between  the  spasms 
of  laughter.  "You  great,  helpless  brute!  ..." 

He  gazed  at  her  villainously,  out  of  sideward,  bloodshot 
eyes. 

"Swear!"  he  said.  "Swear  ...  or  it'll  be  worse  for 
you!" 

Her  laughter  renewed  itself.  Tears  of  laughter  ran 
down  her  wild,  working  face. 

"I  laugh" — she  stammered — "I  laugh — because  you 
think  it  could  be — worse  for  me " 

He  stood  balked,  humiliated  before  this  fierce  paroxysmal 
laughter.  Then  cunning  flashed  into  his  look  of  thwarted 
beast. 

"I'll  tame  you!"  he  said;  and,  laughing  himself  now, 
turned  and  rushed  from  the  room.  A  throe  of  intuition 
gripped  her.  Bobby!  He  was  going  to  wreak  his  spite 
against  her  on  her  boy.  She  was  after  him  like  the  wind. 
But  not  fast  enough  .  .  .  not  fast  enough  .  .  .  Just  be 
fore  her  .  .  .  just  out  of  reach  ...  as  in  a  nightmare 
...  he  was  leaping  up  the  steps  three  at  a  time.  She  had 


242  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

a  horrible  illusion  of  not  moving — of  standing  stock-still — 
of  being  fastened  to  the  spot  by  heavy  weights. 

The  nursery  was  on  the  third  floor.  She  had  put  the 
child  there  because  it  was  the  sunniest  room  in  the  house. 
It  had  two  large  windows,  each  with  a  little  balcony  before 
it.  Yes — it  was  the  nursery  he  was  making  for.  She  was 
just  in  time  to  see  him  plunge  in.  The  light  door,  swung 
to  close  of  itself,  as  in  most  Italian  houses,  clapped  to 
behind  him  without  latching.  She  fell  against  it.  As  she 
did  so  she  heard  Rosa  scream.  The  wild  "dirling"  sound 
of  this  scream  checked  her  blood.  At  the  same  instant  she 
saw.  He  was  out  on  the  light  wooden  balcony  before  the 
west  window — with  the  child,  grasped  by  its  middle,  in 
both  hands.  Then  the  great  arms  straightened.  He  was 
holding  the  boy  out  in  the  blinding  sunshine — out  in  the 
empty  air,  above  a  drop  of  thirty  feet  sheer  to  the  gravel 
drive  below.  She  saw  this  red  as  though  bathed  with 
blood.  The  Italian  woman  had  cast  herself  prone  on  the 
ground — she  tore  at  her  hair  in  a  sort  of  fit.  Sophy  stood 
congealed.  Even  her  eyes  seemed  stiffening.  Her  breath 
stopped  .  .  .  her  heart  .  .  .  She  saw  the  boy  begin  to 
writhe — then  her  heart  writhed  in  her;  but  she  stood  fast. 
Was  the  boy  screaming  ?  Deafness  seemed  to  have  smitten 
her.  She  could  see  the  piteous  round  of  the  little  mouth — 
wide  open — but  no  sound  reached  her. 

Over  his  shoulder  the  madman  flung  with  a  laugh : 

' '  Perhaps  now  you  '11  do  as  I  tell  you. ' ' 

She  heard  a  "Yes"  go  from  her.  It  seemed  like  some 
faint,  winged  thing  fluttering  from  her  mouth  towards 
him.  She  was  afraid  it  would  not  reach  him.  She  sent 
another — another.  "Yes  .  .  .  Yes.  ..." 

"You  swear  it?" 

"Yes.  .  .  ." 

"Never  to  see  that  little  cur  again?" 

"Yes.  .  .  ." 

"Then  here's  'the  pledge  of  love,'  "  he  chuckled.  He 
strode  back  and  dropped  the  boy  into  her  arms. 

But  the  next  instant  his  face  sobered  into  a  scared  look. 
The  child  was  in  spasms.  Like  a  little  fish  upon  a  bank, 
he  jerked  and  twitched  on  his  mother's  breast. 

' '  I  say, ' '  muttered  the  frightened  man ;  "  I  've  gone  it  a 
bit  too  thick  .  .  .  eh?" 

She  was  gazing  with  blind  eyes  at  her  boy.     All  her 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  243 

face  looked  blind.  She  had  sunk  down  on  the  floor  with 
him.  There  was  a  dreadful,  dulled,  yet  crazed,  look  in  the 
very  way  she  held  the  jerking  body.  She  kept  whispering : 
"A  doctor!  ...  A  doctor!  ...  A  doctor!  ..."  It  was 
as  if  she  were  choking  and  this  hoarse  word  "doctor"  were 
what  she  coughed  up  to  keep  from  strangling.  Neither  she 
nor  Chesney  noticed  the  appalled  group  that  had  gathered 
at  the  nursery  door,  drawn  there  by  Rosa's  scream — Luigi, 
Maria,  Tilda,  the  gardener's  boy,  Tibaldo.  Rosa,  now  sit 
ting  up  on  the  tiled  floor,  muttered  and  sobbed  senselessly. 

But  when  Sophy  began  her  monotonous  croak  of,  ' '  Doc 
tor!  .  .  .  Doctor!  ..."  this  group  vanished  as  by  magic 
— all  save  Tilda,  who  came  and  crouched  down  by  her 
mistress,  helping  her  hold  the  struggling  child.  And  all  at 
once,  Chesney,  too,  dashed  from  the  room. 

When  he  reached  the  terrace,  he  saw  Luigi,  like  a  little 
black  hare,  scudding  towards  the  banchetta.  At  his  heels 
ran  Tibaldo  and  the  two  women.  The  huge  man,  in  his  day 
the  fastest  runner  in  England,  overtook  them  in  a  few 
bounds.  Now  his  head  was  clear.  Now  he  knew  what  was 
needed  and  exactly  how  to  get  it.  He  leaped  into  the 
racer,  Luigi  after  him.  Within  eight  minutes  they  were 
at  Intra.  Claudio  Mora,  a  young  doctor  from  Turin,  re 
turned  with  them. 

XL 

MORA  succeeded  in  checking  the  boy's  spasms,  but  was 
much  relieved  when  Sophy  asked  to  have  Cesare  Camenis 
in  consultation — there  were  things  about  the  case  that  he 
could  not  understand.  He  said  so  frankly.  That  such  a 
robust,  sunburnt  little  fellow,  past  the  age  for  teething, 
should  have  convulsions  baffled  him.  Camenis  arrived  at 
five  o'clock.  To  him  Sophy  told  the  whole  truth.  He  was 
a  quiet,  grey  man  of  about  sixty,  whose  own  life  had  been 
tragic.  The  comprehension  of  dominated  sorrow  was  in 
his  face.  Sophy  felt  that  she  could  trust  him,  and  that  he 
should  know  all  if  he  was  to  save  Bobby  for  her.  She 
could  not  have  spoken  to  Mora.  He  was  too  young — and 
he  was  still  encased  in  the  hard  shell  of  happiness.  She 
could  not  have  laid  the  wound  of  her  life  bare  to  him,  as 
she  did  to  this  quiet,  sad-eyed  man  whose  only  son  was  a 
cripple  born,  and  whose  wife  had  left  him  for  a  singer. 


244  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

After  hearing  her,  Camenis  released  his  young  confrere 
from  further  responsibility.  He  would  stay  himself  that 
night,  he  said,  at  Villa  Bianca. 

Bobby  was  very  ill  for  some  days.  He  had  fever  and 
was  delirious.  Sophy  never  left  the  nursery.  Camenis 
stayed  with  her  till  the  crisis  was  past — being  taken  to 
and  fro  between  Stresa  and  the  Villa  during  the  day  in  the 
launch. 

Chesney  avoided  being  alone  with  the  doctor.  He  had 
his  meals  served  at  different  hours,  also  in  his  room,  for 
the  most  part.  When  he  could  not  avoid  meeting  Camenis, 
he  would  halt  awkwardly  for  a  moment,  and  say:  "Little 
chap  going  on  well?"  or,  "Don't  let  Mrs.  Chesney  break 
down,  will  you?"  or  some  such  commonplace.  He  did  not 
like  to  feel  those  shrewd,  sad  eyes  of  the  Genoese  physi 
cian  on  his  face.  He  had  slipped  into  the  way  of  taking 
morphia  pretty  regularly,  ever  since  that  fatal  afternoon. 
To  face  the  prospect  of  Bobby's  possible  death,  with  clear, 
undrugged  mind,  was  too  much  for  him.  And  Sophy  would 
not  see  him — had  sent  him  a  sealed  line  as  soon  as  she 
could  command  herself  enough  to  write,  saying  that  she 
would  not. 

"Do  not  try  to  see  me,"  she  had  written.  "It  is  all  I 
ask  of  you." 

It  was  the  fourth  day  of  Bobby's  illness.  The  late  Sep 
tember  evening  was  still  as  warm  as  August.  Chesney  lay 
on  his  bed  in  the  darkness,  his  hands  under  his  head,  star 
ing  out  at  the  onyx  wall  of  the  Sasso  di  Ferro,  that  rose 
against  a  sky  pricked  with  stars.  The  fronds  of  a  big 
mimosa  tree  just  outside  his  window,  furled  sensitively 
from  the  heavy  dew,  made  a  delicate  pattern  against  the 
sombre  stolidity  of  the  mountain.  Through  them,  as 
though  winking  with  sardonic  humour,  the  red  eye  of  the 
Chaldee  lime  kiln  glowed  intermittently.  Chesney  was  not 
undressed,  though  he  lay  upon  his  bed.  He  lay  there  be 
cause  he  felt  dead  tired,  soul  and  mind  and  body,  and 
because  he  had  just  taken  his  evening  dose  of  morphia. 
He  was  so  tired  that  he  was  not  even  thinking  his  own 
thoughts.  Emile  Verhaeren  was  thinking  for  him — Ver- 
haeren,  the  one  poet  that  he  had  ever  really  cared  for. 
The  great  Belgian's  volcanic  and  almost  demoniacally 
virile  imagination  had  appealed  to  him  from  the  first,  as 
no  other  had  ever  done.  His  own  tempestuous,  rebellious, 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  245 

intolerant  nature  echoed  to  these  trumpets  of  anguish  and 
defiance  and  exultation.  Spirit  writhing  in  the  blast-fur 
nace  of  untempered  and  primordial  sensuality,  the  dis 
torted  religious  instinct  easing  its  throes  with  supernal 
blasphemies,  a  dark  Prometheus  thrusting  with  his  defiant 
torch  at  the  eye-sockets  of  the  God  from  whom  he  had 
filched  it — these  things  stirred  him  to  the  very  depths. 
And,  to-night,  it  was  as  if  Verhaeren  had  written  for  him 
and  him  alone.  Who  but  he  and  Verhaeren  had  ever  felt 
what  these  words  expressed? — these  words  that  thundered 
and  howled  through  his  mind  translating  himself  to  him 
self,  with  such  appalling  fitness: 

"  Dites  suis-je  seul  avec  mon  ame, 
Man  ame  helas  maison  d'ebene 
Ou  s'est  fendu  sans  bruit  un  soir 
Le  grand  miroir  de  mon  espoir." 

And  again : 

"  Aurai-j'enfln  I'atroce  joie 
De  voir  nuit   apres  nuit  com/me  une  proie 
La  demence  attaquer  mon  cerveau, 
Et  detraque,  malade,  sorti  de  la  prison 
Et  des  travaux  forces  de  sa  raison 
D'appareiller  vers  un  lointain  nouveau?" 


He  lay  there  thinking  through  the  terrible,  implacable 
mind  of  Verhaeren  until  midnight.  Then  a  foot  on  the 
stair  roused  him.  It  was  light  and  swift — a  running  step 
— Sophy's.  Was  the  boy  worse?  Was  he  dying,  perhaps? 
He  leaped  to  the  door,  jerked  it  open.  His  haggard,  drug- 
ravaged  face  stared  out  between  the  cheap  yellow  wood  of 
the  newel-post  and  the  door.  Sophy  was  coming  down  the 
stair  opposite.  She  looked  like  a  somnambule  in  her  long 
white  dressing-gown,  with  eyes  fixed  before  her.  He  came 
out  and  stood  facing  her.  She  looked  straight  at  him,  but 
her  face  was  blank  of  recognition. 

' '  Sophy ! "  he  muttered — there  was  anguish  in  his  hoarse 
voice:  "Sophy!" 

For  all  response,  she  leaned  over  the  banister. 

"Dottore!     Dottore!"  she  called. 

"Vengo — vengo,  signora!"  came  at  once  the  reply  of 
Camenis.  As  soon  as  he  answered,  she  turned  and  ran 


246  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

fleetly  up  the  stairs  again.  She  had  not  even  glanced  to 
wards  Chesney.  Then  Camenis  went  by,  also  very  quickly. 
Chesney  wanted  to  ask  what  it  was  ...  he  could  not  speak. 
Later,  he  waylaid  the  doctor  coming  back.  Yes — the  boy 
was  conscious  again.  He  would  live.  The  crisis  was  past. 

Chesney  hung  so  heavily  on  the  door  that  it  swung  back 
a  little  with  him. 

"Can  I  do  anything  for  you,  signore?"  said  Camenis, 
hesitating.  "You  look  ill  yourself." 

"No — thanks — the — shock —  '  Chesney  mumbled.  He 
retreated,  closing  the  door.  Camenis  stood  a  second  look 
ing  at  the  closed  door.  Then  he  passed  on  to  his  own 
room. 

The  next  day  he  said  to  Sophy : 

"Signora,  now  that  the  little  one  is  out  of  danger,  I  feel 
that  I  must  speak  to  you  about  your  husband." 

He  saw  her  grow  rigid. 

"Signora,"  he  pursued  very  gently,  "one  forgives  much 
to  illness.  Your  husband  is  an  ill  man,  signora. ' '  He  saw 
her  eyes  waver,  but  her  nostrils  were  still  set. 

' '  You  have  been  kind  enough  to  trust  me  with  your  con 
fidence,  signora,"  Camenis  went  on  in  his  flat,  gentle 
voice.  "And  so  I  feel  it  my  duty  to  speak  quite  plainly 
to  you." 

"Yes,"  said  Sophy  mechanically. 

Camenis  looked  at  her  with  that  tender  pity,  which  from 
the  wise  eyes  of  a  kindly  priest  or  physician  does  not  hurt. 
His  look  reminded  Sophy  of  Father  Raphael  of  the  Poor. 
She  braced  herself  to  meet  what  was  coming. 

"Then,  signora,"  said  Camenis,  "I  will  remind  you 
that  your  husband  came  to  me  two  weeks  ago,  to  consult 
me  about  a  severe  attack  of  sciatica.  He  asked  for  a  pal 
liative.  I  told  him  that  I  knew  of  none  save  opium — 
morphia  .  .  .  that  I  did  not  give  it  except  in  extreme 
cases.  Now,  signora,  from  what  you  have  told  me — about 
the  unfortunate  habit  that  your  husband  has  only  lately 
escaped  from  .  .  .  You  will  pardon  my  perfect  frank 
ness,  signora?" 

"Yes  ...  Yes  ..  ." 

"Then  .  .  .  You  must  not  be  too  shocked — too  horri 
fied.  We,  who  have  not  endured  it,  cannot  imagine  this 
terrible  temptation  of  morphia.  But  to  one,  only  so  lately 
cured  ...  to  whom  severe  pain  comes  ..." 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  247 

He  hesitated  again,  and  Sophy  said  in  a  hard,  clear 
voice : 

"Do  you  mean  that  my  husband  is  taking  morphia 
again?" 

"I  fear  so,  signora,"  said  Camenis  very  gently. 

Sophy  sat  looking  down  at  her  hand  which  she  clenched 
and  unclenched  as  it  lay  on  her  knee. 

"Yes — I  think  it's  very  likely,"  she  said  at  last,  still  in 
that  hard,  resonant  voice. 

Camenis  was  silent  for  a  time ;  then  he  said : 

"I  think  your  husband  has  suffered  much  for  what  he 
did  the  other  day,  signora." 

Sophy's  face  flamed.     Her  eyes  glittered. 

' '  Don 't  speak  of  it  ...  don 't  speak  of  it  .  .  . ! "  she 
cried,  as  though  suffocating. 

Again  Camenis  waited. 

"Forgive  me,  signora,"  he  then  said,  "but  I  must  tell 
you  that  I  think  this  is  a  crisis  for  your  husband  as  well 
as  for  your  son." 

Sophy  turned  suddenly  and  hid  her  face  against  the 
back  of  her  chair. 

The  tired,  kind  eyes  of  Camenis  looked  at  the  bent  head 
compassionately.  After  another  pause,  he  said: 

"I  think — as  a  physician — if  you  could  go  to  him — 
gently — he  would  confess  and  try  once  more  to — to  be 
what  you  would  have  him  be,  signora." 

Then  Sophy  broke  down  and  wept  like  a  desperate  child. 

"I  can't!  Oh,  I  can't!"  she  sobbed.  "You  don't  know 
.  .  .  I  can't  bear  even  the  memory  of  his  face — his  voice! 
How  am  I  to  go  to  him ?  I  can't!  I  can't!" 

The  little  doctor's  face  looked  very  worn  as  he  sat 
watching  her,  while  she  clung  to  the  big,  ugly  chair  as  to  a 
rock  of  refuge,  clutching  it  with  her  white  hands  that  had 
grown  thin  in  this  one  week  of  Bobby's  illness — staining 
its  gay  chintz  cover  with  her  tears.  Suddenly  he  rose,  and 
went  over  to  her. 

"Bambino,  .  .  .  bambina  .  .  ."he  said  tenderly,  "when 
you  have  saved  him,  you  will  love  him.  We  always  love 
what  we  have  saved." 

He  just  touched  her  hair  softly,  once,  as  a  father  would 
have  done. 

"Coraggio  .  .  ."he  murmured,  in  his  kind,  faded  voice. 
Then  he 'left  her. 


248  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

Chesney  was  filling  his  hypodermic  syringe  that  even 
ing,  about  seven,  when  there  came  a  low  knock  at  his  door. 
He  started,  nearly  dropping  the  little  instrument. 

""Who's  there?"  he  called  sharply.  In  every  nerve  he 
felt  the  need  of  this  dose  that  he  was  preparing — so  soon 
does  the  tyrant  morphia  assert  its  sway.  He  was  trans 
fixed  to  hear  Sophy 's  voice  reply-: 

"It's  I,  Cecil." 

Hurriedly,  his  hands  shaking  as  with  ague,  he  bundled 
everything  into  a  drawer,  and  closed  it.  Then  he  went  to 
the  door.  He  stood  with  it  in  his  hand,  staring  at  her  as 
though  just  waked. 

"May  I  come  in?"  she  said  very  low.  "I — I  want  to 
talk  with  you." 

He  was  still  too  overcome  to  speak.  Silently  he  stepped 
aside,  drawing  the  door  with  him.  She  entered  quickly, 
her  head  a  little  bent,  her  hands  clasped  nervously  in  front 
of  her.  The  weather  was  still  very  warm :  she  had  come 
from  the  nursery,  and  wore  a  long  peignoir  of  white  mus 
lin.  The  soft,  straight  folds  made  her  seem  taller  than 
ever.  Her  bent  head  contradicted  the  haughtiness  of  her 
body.  It  was  as  if  she  wanted  to  command  a  mood  of  gen 
tleness  by  forcing  its  physical  semblance. 

""Will  you  sit  here?"  asked  Chesney.     His  voice  shook. 

"Thanks  ..."  she  murmured,  and  took  the  chair  that 
he  pushed  forward. 

She  didn  't  seem  able  to  say  what  she  had  come  for.  She 
sat  silent  so  long  that  he  felt  forced  to  speak. 

"Is  ...  is  Bobby  all  right?"  he  faltered. 

The  colour  streamed  across  her  cheek  at  these  words,  as 
though  he  had  struck  her. 

"Forgive  me,"  he  said  humbly.  "I  ...  I  really  care, 
you  know." 

"He  is  better,"  she  managed  to  reply.  Her  lips  moved 
stiffly.  Then  she  lifted  her  head  with  a  sort  of  desperation 
of  resolve.  Her  eyes  fixed  on  his. 

"Cecil  .  .  ."  she  said,  "I've  come  .  .  .  one,  last 
time  ..."  She  broke  off;  then  went  on:  "This  one,  last 
time,"  she  repeated,  "to  see  if  you  ...  if  we  ...  if  to 
gether  ..."  Again  words  failed  her.  Looking  firmly  at 
him,  she  ended  more  quietly:  "I've  come  to  beg  you  to 
tell  me  the  truth,"  she  said,  and  her  dark  eyes  rested  on 
him  full  of  doubt  and  pain. 


249 

He  could  scarcely  have  grown  paler,  but  his  head 
drooped ;  he  sat  looking  down  at  his  great  hands  which  he 
clasped  and  unclasped  nervously. 

"Well  .  .  ."  she  whispered  finally.  "Will  you?  ... 
It's  our  last  .  .  .  last  chance." 

With  difficulty  he  articulated,  "Try  me." 

"Then  ..."  she  went  on,  after  a  slight  pause,  still 
whispering,  "are  you  .  .  .  taking  morphine  again?" 

There  was  no  pause  before  his  answer. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  his  face  still  drooped  away  from  her. 

She  caught  one  hand  to  her  breast.  She  could  not  be 
lieve  her  own  ears.  Had  he  said  "Yes"  at  once — simply — 
outright  like  that,  to  such  a  question  ?  Something  fine  and 
brave  in  her  throbbed  response  to  that  unequivocal 
"Yes." 

"Cecil  .  .  ."she  said. 

All  at  once  he  tossed  up  his  hands  to  his  bent  face.  His 
great  figure,  huddled  on  the  little  chair,  began  shaking 
from  head  to  foot. 

' '  Oh,  my  God ! "  he  said.  ' '  My  God !  Don 't  be  kind  to 
me  .  .  .  don 't  be  kind ! ' ' 

And  dreadful  sobs  began  heaving  through  him. 

"Oh  .  .  .  poor  Cecil  .  .  .!"  came  from  her  in  a  gasp. 

And  then  he  fell  forward  on  his  knees  before  her,  his 
face  in  her  lap,  his  hands  grasping  the  soft  folds  of  her 
gown.  His  tumultuous,  painful  sobbing  shook  them  both — 
as  if  torn  up  by  bloody  roots  came  the  great  sobs. 

"Sophy  .  .  .  God  .  .  .  Sophy  ...  I've  suffered  .  .  . 
I've  suffered  ...  If  he'd  died  .  .  .  Yes  .  .  .  one  shot 
.  .  .  yes  .  .  .  one  ..." 

And  his  passion  of  grief,  torrential  as  his  passion  of 
love,  flooded  her,  shook  her  with  its  cyclonic  abandonment, 
until  she  seemed  one  flesh  with  him  in  this  unmeasured 
tragedy  of  wild  remorse. 

Through  her  thin  gown  she  felt  his  tears  soak  to  her  very 
skin — a  hot  chrism  baptising  her  once  more  his  in  this  ter 
rific  rite  of  sorrow. 

She  bent  over  him,  her  hands  upon  his  head,  her  own 
tears  falling. 

"No  ...  no!"  she  pleaded.  "No  ...  no,  Cecil!  Don't 
.  .  .  don't  despair  like  this  ...  we  will  begin  again  .  .  . 
The  truth.  .  .  .  You  have  told  the  truth.  ..." 

She  began  to  sob  herself  now. 


250 

"And  the  truth  shall  make  you  free  .  .  .  the  truth 
shall  make  you  free,  dear  ..."  she  kept  sobbing. 

Now  she  had  his  head  against  her  breast — her  cheek 
pressed  down  on  it.  As  she  held  Bobby  to  comfort  him, 
when  he  was  frightened,  so  she  held  the  great  man.  He 
was  afraid  now — afraid  of  himself — like  a  child.  Close 
she  held  him  to  comfort  him  .  .  close  .  .  close.  . 


XLI 

THAT  night  they  talked  things  over  quietly.  Sophy  was 
very  gentle  with  him — almost  incredibly  generous,  he 
thought.  With  his  permission,  she  consulted  Camenis 
about  the  amount  of  morphia  that  he  ought  to  have,  to 
"tail  off,"  as  he  said  humbly — in  order  to  get  him  back 
to  England  without  too  much  discomfort  from  the  sciatic 
pains  and  the  sudden  snapping  of  the  habit  that  he  had 
formed  again — albeit  to  such  a  moderate  extent.  Camenis 
gave  his  opinion,  and  Sophy  undertook  to  give  her  hus 
band  the  properly  diminished  doses.  Chesney  was  almost 
pathetically  humble.  It  hurt  her  in  some  subtle  nerve  to 
see  the  big,  domineering  man,  so  subdued,  so  timidly  anx 
ious  to  conciliate  her,  to  redeem  himself  in  her  opinion. 
It  was  beyond  doubt  that  he  had  suffered  excruciatingly 
over  the  boy's  illness  and  his  part  in  it. 

"The  little  chap  won't  be  able  to  bear  the  sight  of  me, 
I  suppose,"  he  had  ventured  once,  and  she  saw  his  lips 
quiver  as  he  said  it. 

She  felt  a  submerging  pity  for  him. 

"Leave  that  to  me,"  she  answered  gently.  "I've 
thought  of  a  way  ...  I  think  I  can  manage  .  .  .  but  it 
will  take  time,  of  course." 

Another  thing  that  proved  to  her  the  depth  of  his  self- 
humiliation  and  genuine  regret  was  the  fact  that  he  wished 
to  apologise  to  Amaldi. 

"I  shall  tell  him  the  brute  fact,"  he  said,  "that  I  was 
drunk  with  that  Grappa  stuff.  He  can  accept  my  apology 
or  not,  as  he  chooses." 

He  wrote  the  note  of  apology  the  morning  after  their 
talk. 

"Shall  I  post  it  or  send  it  by  Luigi?"  he  asked,  looking 


251 

not  at  her  but  the  letter  which  he  was  holding.  Sophy 
thought  a  moment,  then  she  said : 

"We  are  leaving  Wednesday,  and  I  ought  to  see  the 
Marchesa  before  I  go.  Suppose  you  let  me  take  it?  I  can 
leave  it  with  her." 

"Do,"  he  said,  giving  her  the  letter;  then  he  took  her 
hand  in  both  his.  "Thanks,  Sophy,"  he  added,  under  his 
breath. 

Sophy  started  for  Le  Vigne  about  ten  o'clock.  She  took 
Luigi  with  her  to  run  the  launch — he  was  fortunately 
cleverer  as  a  meccanico  than  as  a  valet.  The  sky  was  col 
oured  like  blue  morning-glories,  and  the  lake  like  gentian. 
Clouds  and  foam  dissolved  on  the  great  sheets  of  blue  like 
snow  melting  upon  flame.  But  the  beauty  of  the  day 
seemed  cruel  to  Sophy.  It  was  like  the  laughter  of  water 
in  sunlight  above  the  place  where  a  ship  has  foundered. 
Camenis  had  happened  to  mention  the  fact  that  Amaldi 
was  in  Milan,  else  she  could  not  have  gone  for  that  fare 
well  visit,  onerous  as  she  felt  it  to  be. 

And  even  as  it  was,  she  shrank  from  seeing  the  Mar- 
chesa.  Had  Amaldi  told  her?  Her  cheek  tingled  shame 
at  the  thought.  But  the  next  instant  she  felt  that  she 
knew  him  better  than  that.  No;  he  would  not  have  told 
any  one  of  that  scene  which  had  been  so  degrading  for  her. 

But  when  she  reached  Le  Vigne,  she  found  that  the 
Marchesa  had  gone  to  Belgirate  for  the  day.  Old  Carletto 
seemed  deeply  sorry  for  her  disappointment. 

"Che  peccato,  signora!  Che  peccato!"  he  kept  saying, 
shaking  his  white  head  slowly  and  clicking  his  tongue. 
The  Signora  Marchesa  would  be  so  sad,  so  very  sad  to  miss 
the  signora.  Then  he  brightened  up. 

' '  But  the  Marchesino  is  here,  signora ! "  he  exclaimed. 
"The  Marchesino  is  very  busy  in  his  study  .  .  .  but  he 
would  wish  me  to  disturb  him  on  such  an  occasion.  He 
will  know  how  to  find  the  Signora  Marchesa." 

Sophy  had  started  for  the  darsena  again  in  real  panic. 
She  even  forgot  to  leave  Cecil's  letter  with  the  old  butler. 

"No — no!  Don't  disturb  the  Marchese,"  she  called 
back.  ' '  I  desire  you  not  to  do  it. ' ' 

As  she  was  speaking,  Carletto,  who  was  following  her 
as  fast  as  his  bent  legs  would  amble,  called  out : 

"Ma,  eccolo!     Ecco  il  Marchesino,  signora!" 

She  hurried  on,  her  head  bent,  the  letter  in  the  pocket 


252  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

of  her  gown  seeming  to  scorch  her  fingers.  Amaldi  over 
took  her,  just  before  she  reached  the  darsena.  They  mur 
mured  vague  greetings.  Both  were  very  pale.  A  trem 
bling  had  seized  Sophy.  Everything  grew  dim  before  her 
in  that  moment.  Amaldi,  seeing  how  it  was  with  her,  of 
fered  her  his  arm.  She  took  it  from  the  sheer  instinct  of 
self-preservation.  The  ground  seemed  falling  from  be 
neath  her  feet  in  slanting  jerks. 

"You  are  tired  .  .  ."  he  said,  speaking  with  an  effort. 
"There  is  a  seat  here  .  .  .  among  these  ilex  shrubs.  .  .  . 
You  must  rest  a  moment. ' ' 

AValking  giddily  along  the  unstable,  sliding  earth,  she 
allowed  him  to  guide  her  to  the  old  stone  seat  on  the  south 
terrace.  The  dark  foliage  screened  them  from  the  house. 
Between  them  and  the  blue  dazzle  of  the  lake  was  a  low 
balustrade  of  stone.  Amaldi  helped  her  to  the  seat,  and 
then  went  and  leaned  upon  this  balustrade. 

The  faintness  passed,  and  Sophy  sat  thinking  feverishly 
how  she  must  act.  The  directness  of  her  nature  guided 
her.  She  drew  the  letter  from  her  pocket,  and,  rising, 
"went  towards  Amaldi.  He  turned  when  he  heard  her  foot 
step.  As  he  turned,  she  stopped  where  she  was,  holding 
out  the  letter  to  him. 

"Marchese,"  she  said,  "I  had  meant  to  leave  this  letter 
with  your  mother.  I  was  told  you  were  in  Milan.  It — it  is 
from — my  husband.  .  .  .  Wait!"  she  cried  almost  im 
periously,  as  she  saw  the  recoil  of  his  whole  figure.  "You 
must  listen — you  must  understand.  He  .  .  .  my  husband 
.  .  .  has  been  very  ill.  This  .  .  .  this  letter  is  an  apology, 
Marchese — an  apology  to  you." 

Amaldi  bowed  formally,  and  took  the  letter.  His  face 
was  inscrutable.  He  started  to  put  the  envelope  unopened 
into  his  pocket. 

Sophy,  flushing  deeply,  murmured: 

"Won't  you  even  read  it?" 

Amaldi  bowed  again. 

"There  is  no  need,"  he  said.  "An  apology  offered  in 
this  manner" — his  tone  was  rather  bitter — "I  accept 
without  reading." 

Sophy  stood  silent ;  then  her  head  went  down  a  little. 

"I  ...  I  thank  you,"  she  whispered. 

A  quick  change  came  over  Amaldi 's  face;  but  she  was 
looking  down  on  the  flagged  walk  and  did  not  see  it. 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  253 

"Do  you  go  soon  now?"  he  asked,  his  voice  almost  as 
low  as  hers. 

"Yes  ...  on  Wednesday." 

"It  will  doubtless  be  long  before  you  come  again  to 
Lago  Maggiore?" 

"Yes." 

"Do  not  forget  us  ...  entirely." 

"No." 

"You  will  not  be  forgotten  ..." 

There  was  in  his  voice  such  an  intensity  of  pain  with 
difficulty  subdued  that  the  trembling  seized  her  again  de 
spite  all  her  will.  He  continued : 

"This  is  farewell  ...  is  it  not?"  he  said. 

She  could  not  control  her  voice  to  answer.  She  moved 
her  head  in  assent,  her  eyes  still  downcast. 

' '  Then  ..."  said  Amaldi,  ' '  will  you  not  look  at  me — to 
say  farewell  ? ' ' 

She  lifted  her  eyes  to  his — it  cost  her  much  to  lift  them. 
But  she  looked  up  as  he  had  desired,  and  it  was  into  his 
bared  soul  that  she  looked.  There  was  an  instant's  si 
lence  ;  then  he  spoke. 

"It  is  my  whole  life  that  goes  with  you,"  he  said. 

She  stood  gazing  at  him  as  though  spellbound.  Then 
she  half-lifted  her  hands  like  a  suppliant.  She  was  as 
white  as  her  gown.  But  the  flood-gates  were  open  now. 
Neither  of  them  could  stay  the  flood. 

"Yes,"  he  went  on,  "I  love  you.  I've  loved  you  from 
the  first  .  .  .  with  all  my  soul,  with  all  my  life.  ...  I 
love  you  with  my  soul.  .  .  .  Do  you  understand  ?  .  .  .  with 
my  soul.  ..." 

He  took  a  step  towards  her.  They  were  both  trembling 
now. 

' '  If  you  would  trust  me  ...  if  you  would  let  me  shield 
you  .  .  .  with  my  whole  life  .  .  .  with  my  love  .  .  .  with 
love  that  is  worship  .  .  .  worship  ..." 

She  found  her  voice  at  last,  and  cried  out  to  him  as  if 
for  mercy: 

' '  No,  Amaldi ;  no !  Oh,  I  implore  you !  .  .  .  Stop  !  It 
can't  be  ...  it  can't  be!" 

He  wheeled  where  he  stood  so  that  his  face  was  hidden 
from  her.  It  was  the  instinctive  movement  of  the  body 
that  seeks  to  hide  the  bared  soul.  A  moment  passed.  Then 
she  said  brokenly: 


254  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

' '  I  must  go  now  ...  I  must  go  back  ..." 

Now  he  turned  to  her  again.  His  face  was  livid.  His 
lips  drew  when  he  spoke. 

"You  will  go  'back  .  .  .?"  he  stammered.  "You  will  go 
back  to  that  .  .  .  that  Minotaur?"  His  teeth  ground  on 
the  word.  It  was  terrible  to  see  the  man,  usually  so  still, 
so  self-controlled,  stripped  of  all  reserve. 

"I  must  ...  I  must  .  .  .  for  my  boy's  sake.  Ah,  don't 
look  at  me  with  such  eyes!  ...  I  can't  bear  your  face 
...  so  different!" 

She  trembled  still  more  violently,  put  up  her  hand  to 
shut  out  the  ghastly,  devastated  look  of  his  face. 

"You  go  back?  You  go  back  to  him?"  he  kept  mutter 
ing.  "Che  orrore  .  .  .  che  orrore.  ..."  All  at  once  he 
gripped  himself.  He  said  in  a  strange,  level  tone :  ' '  There 
is  nothing  I  can  do,  then.  I  would  give  my  life  .  .  .  yet 
there  is  nothing  ...  no  way  that  I  can  serve  you  ..." 

' '  Amaldi  .  .  .  Amaldi  ..."  she  murmured.  She  caught 
his  hand  in  both  her  own.  "Oh,  forgive  me  .  .  ."she  said; 
"dear,  dear  Amaldi,  forgive  me!" 

He  bent  and  kissed  the  hands  that  clasped  his. 

' '  There  is  nothing  to  forgive, ' '  he  answered. 

It  seemed  to  Sophy  afterwards,  when  she  came  more  to 
her  usual  self  out  there  on  the  glee  of  blue  waters,  far 
from  Le  Vigne,  that  they  two  had  been  like  actors  moving 
through  some  pantomime,  during  those  last  moments.  In 
silence  they  had  walked  together  to  the  darsena ;  in  silence 
he  had  assisted  her  into  the  launch ;  in  silence  she  had  sat 
watching  Luigi  start  the  engine.  No  other  farewell  had 
passed  between  them.  In  the  moments  following  that  dis 
astrous,  tragic  crisis,  all  convention  had  withered.  They 
had  not  even  a  subconscious  sense  of  the  mimic  civilities 
due  to  Luigi 's  presence.  And  over  Sophy  stole  that  numb 
ness  which  comes  as  anodyne  to  deep  natures  which  have 
been  called  on  to  endure  too  many  and  too  violent  shocks 
within  a  short  period.  For  a  few  moments,  there  face  to 
face  with  Amaldi,  she  had  suffered  intensely.  Now  that 
was  past.  She  felt  quiet,  and  oddly  cramped,  as  though 
crouching  in  a  little  capsule  of  stillness  at  the  cyclone's 
heart.  .  .  . 

They  could  not  leave  on  Wednesday  as  they  had  ex 
pected.  Bobby's  fever  had  culminated  in  a  sharp  attack 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  255 

of  jaundice — the  result  of  fright,  Camenis  told  her.  But 
the  little  fellow  recovered  rapidly.  Only  his  nerves  seemed 
still  taut  from  the  shock.  He  would  shriek  out  wildly  in 
his  sleep,  and  no  one  but  his  mother  could  soothe  these 
paroxysms  of  terror.  As  he  grew  stronger,  she  began  to 
pursue  with  him  the  course  of  which  she  had  hinted  to 
Chesney. 

' '  My  darling, ' '  she  would  coax,  ' '  dada  was  only  showing 
you  how  strong  he  was  .  .  .  how  safe  he  could  hold  you. 
Why,  dada  wouldn  't  hurt  his  little  boy  for  all  the  world ! 
He's  so  strong,  so  strong!  He  couldn't  let  Bobby  fall. 
Don't  you  see,  sweetheart?" 

Thus  she  would  coax  him  by  the  hour.  At  last  it  seemed 
to  "seep"  into  his  little  brain.  "Dada  so  st'ong, "  he 
would  repeat.  ' '  Dada  show  Bobby  'ow  st  'ong !  Good  dada 
.  .  .  not  dwop  Bobby ! ' ' 

At  last  Sophy  ventured  to  ask  one  day : 

"Don't  you  want  to  see  poor  dada?  He's  so  afraid  his 
little  boy  doesn't  love  him  any  more?" 

But  Bobby  began  to  tremble. 

"Dada  so  st'ong  .  .  ."  he  pleaded,  clinging  hard  to 
Sophy's  breast.  At  last,  however,  he  consented  to  let  his 
father  come. 

Chesney  entered,  hesitating — stood  near  the  door.  Sophy, 
who  had  her  arm  about  Bobby  as  he  lay  against  the  pil 
lows  in  his  crib,  beckoned  him  to  come  forward. 

"Now,  now,  my  little  man  .  .  .  my  ~brave  little 
man  ..."  she  murmured  in  the  child's  ear,  her  cheek  to 
his — encouraging,  soothing  him.  Chesney  came  and  got 
awkwardly  on  his  knees  beside  the  crib.  He  felt  thankful 
to  make  himself  smaller  in  the  boy's  eyes.  Timidly  he 
ventured  to  steal  one  of  his  great  hands  towards  the  little 
fist,  clutched  in  Sophy's  laces. 

"How  are  you,  little  man?"  he  said,  "gentling"  his 
voice  as  to  some  shy  animal.  "Won't  you  say  'how  d'ye 
do'  to  dada?" 

The  boy,  trying  so  hard  to  "be  a  man,"  regarded  him 
with  wide  eyes,  and  the  most  touching,  wavering  smile  of 
courage  on  the  verge  of  tears.  Then  he  looked  with  des 
perate  appeal  up  at  his  mother.  The  set,  wavering  smile 
grew  pale. 

"Dada  too  st'ong  .  .  ."  he  said.    "Bobby  so  little  .  .  ." 

Chesney  put  down  his  face  upon  the  crib  and  wept. 


256  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

Sophy  knew  that  he  was  weeping,  though  no  sound  came 
from  him.  Then  she  told  Bobby  that  "poor  dada  had 
been  very,  very  ill" — he  wasn't  "too  st'oiig"  any  more. 
And  taking  the  little  unwilling  hand  in  hers,  she  "poored" 
his  father's  bent  head  with  it.  Chesney  turned  his  face 
presently,  kissed  the  little  hand,  then  got  up  silently  and 
left  the  room.  Sophy  went  to  him,  five  minutes  later,  and 
found  him  face  down  on  his  bed,  sobbing  like  a  child.  His 
own  nerves  had  gone  completely  under  the  dreadful  shocks 
of  the  past  ten  days. 


XLII 

BOBBY'S  attack  of  jaundice  was  soon  over.  After  that 
glimpse  of  his  father,  so  gentle  and  so  very  kind — kinder 
than  Bobby  had  ever  known  him — the  boy  began  to  re 
cover  with  the  quick  resilience  of  childhood.  By  the  fol 
lowing  Monday  he  was  quite  fit  to  travel,  Camenis  said. 

Physically,  Chesney  was  much  better  also.  Camenis 
had  succeeded  in  routing  the  sciatica.  A  strong  tonic  had 
somewhat  restored  his  appetite.  Altogether,  he  felt  more 
fit  than  he  had  believed  possible  under  the  circumstances. 
At  first,  Camenis  had  wanted  him  to  take  hot  hip-baths 
mixed  with  sea-salt.  But  here  Chesney  rebelled.  He 
loathed  hot  baths.  He  demanded  either  a  quick,  cold  tub 
in  the  morning,  or  else  his  usual  swrim  in  the  lake.  Cam 
enis  and  he  tussled  for  some  hours  over  this  question. 
Finally,  it  was  agreed  by  the  physician  that  as  this  Sep 
tember  was  such  an  unusually  warm  one,  Chesney  might 
have  a  very  short  swim  during  the  hottest  hours  of  the 
morning;  then,  after  drying  himself,  lie  and  bake  in  the 
sun  on  the  scorching  pebbles  of  the  shore.  Late  in  the 
season  as  it  was,  he  acquired  the  most  beautifully  toned 
mahogany-brown  back  and  chest  by  this  method.  He  was 
boyishly  proud  of  this  splendid  tanning. 

"The  old  boy '11  think  he's  got  a  nigger-chief  to  monkey 
with,  this  time.  Eh — what?"  he  asked  Sophy,  turning 
about  before  her  in  his  short  bathing-trunks  that  she  might 
see  the  full  glory  of  his  sunburnt  torso.  She  smiled  ap 
proval,  saying  that  to  her  he  looked  more  like  a  well- 
roasted  turkey  than  a  "nigger."  And  she  thought  what 
a  boy  the  big  man  was,  at  heart.  It  seemed  pathetic  and 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  257 

strange  and  very  nice  to  her,  all  at  the  same  time,  that  he 
could  take  such  pleasure  in  such  a  thing,  after  all  that  had 
passed  and  was  to  come. 

Sunday  evening  she  spent  in  having  the  last  things 
packed  away.  The  dismantled  villa  looked  the  picture  of 
sordid  cheerlessness,  when  stripped  of  all  the  little  touches 
she  had  given  it.  They  dined  by  one,  virulent  jet  of 
acetylene  gas,  blazing  in  an  iron  loop  from,  the  middle  of 
the  ceiling. 

"By  George,  this  is  funereal!"  Chesney  could  not  re 
frain  from  exclaiming.  ' '  Two  more  meals  like  this — is  it  ? 
Well,  they  '11  give  me  melancholia. ' ' 

"We  needn't  have  two  more,"  Sophy  consoled  him. 
"I've  thought  it  out  already.  To-morrow  morning  we 
can  breakfast  on  the  terrace.  Then  we  can  go  to  the 
Hotel  Ghiffa  for  luncheon.  Our  boat  doesn't  leave  until 
three." 

He  looked  at  her  with  cordial  appreciation. 

"Clever  girl — so  we  can!"  he  said.  "But,  I  say" — his 
face  fell — "what  about  my  swim  and  sun-bath?  That 
would  cut  me  short — lunching  at  Ghiffa,  I  mean." 

"But  there's  a  capital  bathing-shore  at  the  hotel,"  she 
reminded  him.  "You  can  have  your  swim  there  while  they 
prepare  luncheon." 

About  eleven  o'clock  next  morning  they  sauntered  to 
gether  along  the  white  high-road  to  Ghiffa. 

"You  will  have  a  glorious  swim  ..."  Sophy  said,  look 
ing  at  the  lake  that  drowsed  under  the  faint  breath  of  a 
listless  Tramontana. 

"Those  sleek,  snaky  trails  on  the  water  mean  rain,  they 
tell  me, ' '  answered  Chesney.  "  I  'm  in  luck  to  have  a  sunny 
day  for  my  last  swim." 

"Yes,"  she  assented  dreamily.  "Rain  isn't  becoming 
to  Italy.  She's  like  a  beautiful  woman  who  doesn't  know 
how  to  cry. ' ' 

"Sophy!  How  feminine!  Do  you  know  'how  to  cry,' 
pray?" 

"No.  I  haven't  the  knack  at  all."  She  laughed  a  little. 
"I  make  horrid  faces.  ...  I  can  feel  myself  making 
them.' 

"Poor  lass!"  he  said  in  his  abrupt  way,  suddenly 
gripped  by  this  idea  of  her  grimacing  under  sorrow.  He 
had  given  her  such  a  lot  of  it — by  George !  He  grasped 


258  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

her  hand  with  a  quick  gesture,  and  frown  of  pain,  draw 
ing  it  through  his  arm. 

"It's  to  be  a  clean  slate,  my  girl,"  he  said,  looking  down 
at  her. 

lie  felt  the  slight  fingers  pinch  into  his  arm. 

"Yes,"  she  said.  "Yes,  Cecil."  But  she  looked  in  front 
of  her  face  gave  him  another  pang.  He  was  glad  that 
gether,  as  though  the  dazzle  of  the  white  road  and  clouds 
and  walls  along  the  way,  hurt  her  eyes. 

Chesney  fought  off  a  great  fog  of  depression  that  seemed 
suddenly  to  settle  down  on  him. 

"  'Cheerly!  Cheerly!'  :'  he  cried,  putting  a  bluff  note 
into  his  voice  that  he  was  far  from  feeling.  "What's  it 
the  old  chap  in  The  Tempest  says? — 'Heigh,  my  hearts! 
Cheerly,  cheerly,  my  hearts!'  That's  the  'barbaric  yawp' 
for  us,  Sophy— eh?  Don't  you  feel  it  so?" 

' '  Yes  ...  I  do  ...  I  do,  Cecil, ' '  she  responded  eagerly. 
Her  grey  eyes  looked  up  at  him  now.  The  bright  bravery 
of  her  face  gave  him  another  pang.  He  was  glad  that 
their  next  step  brought  them  to  the  little  Hotel  Ghiffa. 
Sophy  ran  up  to  see  how  Bobby  was  faring,  in  the  rooms 
that  she  had  taken  till  the  hour  for  leaving.  She  found 
him  clamouring  to  go  down  and  "p'ay  ball  wiv  mens"  in 
the  garden.  A  game  of  Boccie  was  going  on  there.  She 
sent  him  down  with  Rosa  to  look  on.  Then  she  went  out 
again  to  find  Cecil.  He  met  her  at  the  door  of  the  second 
bedroom.  When  he  saw  her,  he  stepped  back  into  the 
room  and  signed  her  to  come.  He  reached  out  and  shut 
the  door  behind  her.  His  face  looked  strange,  all  pale 
under  its  heavy  coat  of  tan. 

"Sophy,"  he  said,  "don't  think  me  a  sentimental  ass — 
but  you've  never  told  me  ...  in  so  many  words  that  .  .  . 
well  .  .  .  that  you  forgive  me?" 

He  was  gazing  at  her  hungrily,  with  a  look  half  ashamed, 
half  determined.  She  went  straight  to  him,  and  put  her 
arms  around  him.  It  was  queer  how  much  he  appealed  to 
her  as  Bobby  did. 

"Oh,  I'm  so  sorry  that  I've  let  you  feel  the  need  of 
words!"  she  said.  "But  if  you  want  them  I'll  say  them 
over  and  over — 

"No  .  .  ."  he  stopped  her;  "I  don't  want  them  .  .  . 
now.  Will  you  .  .  .?"  His  arms  held  her  painfully 
close.  She  turned  her  face  to  him  and  he  kissed  her — 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  259 

almost  shyly.    Her  eyes  stung.    She  put  up  her  hand  and 
pressed  his  cheek  to  hers.  .  .  . 

"Now  I'll  go  order  our  luncheon,"  she  said  gaily.  But 
he  knew  well  that  there  was  no  gaiety  in  her  heart.  And 
as  he  got  out  his  bathing  trunks,  and  took  his  bath-sheet 
on  his  arm,  lines  from  Verhaeren  began  again  to  haunt 
him: 

"Je  m'habille  des  loques  de  mes  jours 
Et  le  baton  de  mon  orgeuil  il  plie, 
Mes  pieds  dites  comme  Us  sont  lourds 
De  me  porter,  de  me  trainer  toujours 
Au  long  le  siecle  de  ma  vie  ..." 

Down  to  the  sparkling  hem  of  the  lake  the  sombre  voice 
accompanied  him.  He  stood  in  a  sort  of  muse,  his  bare 
feet  wincing  from  the  hot  pebbles ;  then,  letting  the  ripples 
lave  them,  he  went  on  musing.  And  in  a  sort  of  dark  flare 
the  joyous  scene  vanished,  and  he  saw  smoke-blurred,  au 
tumnal  London  gape  before  him.  Here,  too,  Verhaeren 
whispered  with  gloomy  sympathy : 

"Gares  de  suie  et  de  fumee  ou  du  gas  pleure 
Ses  spleens  d' argent  lointain  vers  des  chemins  d' eclair, 
Ou  des  betes  d' ennui  bdillent  d  I'heure 
Dolente  immensement  qui  tente  Westminster." 

He  had  a  flash  of  grim  amusement  at  the  idea  of  ' '  "West 
minster"  used  by  the  Belgian  poet  to  rhyme  with  "eclair" 
.  .  .  then  he  flung  himself  forward  into  the  glittering  blue, 
and  began  to  swim.  .  .  .  After  all  it  was  good  to  be  alive 
no  matter  what  the  odds.  .  .  .  Perhaps  the  knowledge  that 
this  was  his  last  swim  for  many  months  whetted  his  ap 
preciation,  but  he  had  never  felt  more  jocund  a  delight  in 
the  elastic  clasp  and  purl  of  living  water  upon  his  naked 
flesh.  .  .  . 

Sophy  went  out  on  the  little  terrace  before  the  hotel  to 
wait  for  his  return.  She  had  ordered  luncheon  served 
there,  and  a  cameriere  was  already  throwing  a  fresh  table 
cloth  over  one  of  the  iron  tables.  A  late  tea-rose  nodded 
from  the  terrace  railing  in  the  languid  wind.  She  went 
and  leaned  near  it,  watching  her  husband's  splendid  figure 
against  the  flickering,  sunlit  blue,  as  he  stood  those  few 
moments  musing,  before  he  plunged  forward  for  his  swim. 
The  late,  wistful  rose,  its  petals  slightly  shrivelled  at  the 


260  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

edges,  kept  tapping  softly  against  her  hand.  She  stroked 
it  lightly  with  her  finger  tips.  The  Padrone  bustled  up. 

"Con  permesso — con  permesso,  signora,"  he  smiled, 
unctuously  affable.  And  with  a  table-knife  he  detached 
the  rose  and  presented  it,  bowing  low. 

"Grazie,"  murmured  Sophy.  She  was  sorry  that  the 
poor,  passee  rose  had  been  beheaded  for  her,  but  very 
kindly  she  fastened  it  in  her  belt.  Then,  leaning  on  the 
low  railing,  she  watched  the  fine  rhythm  of  Cecil's  arm,  as 
it  rose  and  fell,  shearing  the  blue  water.  He  was  only  a 
few  yards  from  shore.  He  swam  in  a  big  semi-circle.  Now 
he  was  returning.  She  was  glad  he  \vas  coming  back.  It 
seemed  to  her  that  he  had  been  long  enough  in  the  autumn- 
chilled  water.  .  .  .  But  now  he  seemed  to  have  stopped 
swimming.  Ah,  he  was  treading  water.  She  felt  a  little 
vexed  with  him  for  lingering — but  then,  she  realised  that 
this  was  to  be  his  last  free,  vigorous  pleasure  for  so  long. 
Still,  he  really  should  be  coming  back.  She  stood  up  and 
called  him : 

"Cecil!  ...  Do  come  out!" 

She  could  see  his  face  plainly.  All  at  once  she  gave  a 
startled  movement.  He  was  answering  her  with  grimaces 
.  .  .  frightful  grimaces.  She  knew  his  sardonic  ideas  of 
"fun,"  but  this  struck  her  as  unnatural  .  .  .  cruel. 

"Don't  .  .  .  don't  .  .  ."  she  cried  to  him.  "You 
frighten  me.  .  .  .  Come  back!" 

The  Padrone  had  approached  again. 

"II  signore  ama  scherzare"  (The  gentleman  likes  fun), 
he  observed,  smiling.  Sophy  did  not  hear  him.  Half 
frightened,  half  indignant,  she  was  staring  at  the  grimac 
ing  face.  All  this  had  passed  within  a  few  seconds.  Sud 
denly  Cecil  went  under —  She  held  her  breath. 

"Che  Ercole!"  (What  a  Hercules!),  observed  the  Pa 
drone  admiringly. 

But  she  was  holding  her  breath  with  the  man  under 
water.  It  seemed  to  her  as  though  he  would  never  come 
up  again.  Then  she  saw  him.  And  still  he  made  those 
odious  grimaces.  But  now  he  called  something.  What 
was  it  ?  Her  heart  checked.  It  seemed  to  her  that  he  cried 
"Help !"  and  as  he  cried  it,  he  went  under  the  second  time. 

All  at  once  the  Padrone  gave  a  howl  of  terror. 

"Ma!  s'annega!  s'annega!"  (He's  drowning!  He's 
drowning!),  screamed  the  man. 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  261 

In  an  instant  the  terrace  swarmed  with  shouting  people. 
Sophy  rushed  blindly  for  the  shore.  The  crowd,  still 
shouting,  pressed  after  her.  The  water  for  yards  out  was 
horribly  smooth.  No  object  broke  its  surface. 

"Help!  Help!"  Sophy  cried,  strangling.  She  looked 
for  men  to  plunge  at  once  into  the  Lake.  Not  one  did  so. 
A  voice  called:  "A  chair!  Throw  him  a  chair!"  She 
dashed  knee-deep  into  the  water.  Some  one  dragged  her 
back.  She  was  struggling  with  two  cowards  who  dragged 
her  back  from  that  smooth,  tranquil  expanse  under  which 
Cecil  was  suffocating.  A  woman  threw  her  arms  around 
her,  sobbing,  "Poverina!  Poverina!  E  matta  ..."  She 
fought  wildly  against  the  heaving,  enveloping  breast  of 
this  woman. 

"Cowards!"  she  cried.  The  Italian  word  came  to  her, 
"Vigliacchi!  Vigliacchi!"  she  raged  at  them,  beating  the 
woman's  heavy  breast  with  her  hands.  The  woman  let  her 
go,  but  a  man  caught  her  arms  from  behind.  In  her  strug 
gles  her  long  hair  came  loose  and  blew  back  into  the  man's 
face,  blinding  him.  Still  he  grasped  her  stoutly,  though 
his  face  was  covered  with  her  thick  hair,  and  her  frantic 
movements  dragged  him  inch  by  inch  towards  the  water 
that  he  dreaded.  Now  there  was  a  chair  floating  on  it  ... 
a  little  yellow  chair  that  bobbed  drolly  with  the  motion  of 
the  bright  wavelets.  And  still  people  shouted,  and  ran  to 
and  fro  along  the  edge  of  the  water,  like  terriers  wildly  ex 
cited  over  a  flung  stick  which  they  are  afraid  to  plunge  in 
and  fetch.  One  or  two  had  rushed  off  towards  Ghiffa, 
still  shouting  and  gesticulating.  Boats  had  put  out  from 
the  village.  The  men  in  the  boats  shouted  and  gesticu 
lated  also.  When  they  reached  the  spot  where  Chesney 
had  gone  down,  they  leaned  over,  gazing  into  the  water. 
They  rowed  back  and  forth,  stopping  every  now  and  then 
to  gaze  into  the  water.  Suddenly  there  rose  a  cry:  "L'e 
lil  L'e  lil  Vardel!"  (There  he  is!  See!)  But  no  one 
went  overboard.  It  seemed  to  Sophy  that  her  heart  would 
burst  her  bosom.  She  tried  to  find  some  terrible  word  that 
would  rouse  them  to  manhood.  But  even  her  voice  failed 
her.  It  was  like  trying  to  cry  out  in  a  nightmare.  Only  a 
hoarse  sound  escaped  her.  Her  eyes  felt  full  of  blood. 

Then  suddenly  a  figure  came  running,  bounding. 
"Dove?  Dove?"  (Where?  Where?)  it  called  as  it  pelted 
down  the  terrace  steps. 


262 

It  was  Peppin,  Amaldi's  sailor,  bare-armed  and  bare 
legged,  in  blue  singlet  and  canvas  trousers  rolled  to  the 
knee. 

Sophy's  haggard  blood-shot  eyes  fixed  on  the  half -naked 
sailor  as  though  he  had  been  God. 

The  little  crowd  on  shore  bristled  with  pointing  arms. 
' '  Out  there !  Just  there ! ' '  they  called  in  unison. 

Sophy  tried  to  cry  ' '  Save  him  ! "  to  Peppin,  but  her  voice 
only  croaked  harshly  in  her  throat. 

He  did  not  even  hear  her.  He  had  thrown  his  whole 
seaman's  consciousness  ahead  into  that  clear  yet  impene 
trable  water.  Even  as  she  tried  to  call  to  him,  his  body, 
flashing  obedience  to  his  thought,  shot  into  the  lake  with 
the  curved  bound  of  a  dolphin.  The  \vater  leaped  up  about 
him  as  in  applause.  Here  at  last  was  a  man. 

"Bravo,  Marinaio!  Bravo!  Bravo!"  shrieked  the 
craven  throng. 

Sophy  stood  still  enough  now.  There  was  no  need  to 
hold  her.  She  stood  as  though  her  soul  had  gone  from 
her  and  entered  the  body  of  the  sailor  who  was  swimming 
strong  and  straight  for  the  point  where  Cecil  had  gone 
down. 

The  Padrone,  who  had  seemed  paralysed  until  now,  came 
as  suddenly  to  life  as  Sophy  had  turned  to  stone. 

"11  dottore!"  he  shouted  imperiously.  "Vaa  cercare  il 
dottore!" 

Now  Peppin  had  reached  the  spot  about  which  the  boats 
were  gathered.  lie  trod  water  with  head  bent  low,  peering 
intently  into  the  blue  depths.  The  boats  hung  near.  The 
boatmen  shouted  more  than  ever.  They  pointed  down 
wards.  "L'e  li!  L'e  li!"  they  cried  eagerly.  All  at  once 
the  sailor  dived.  It  wras  as  if  he  turned  a  somersault  in 
the  water.  His  bare,  wet  legs  flashed  up  into  the  sunshine 
as  he  plunged. 

Long  seconds  went  by  ...  an  eternity  of  minute-long 
seconds.  Yet  through  this  horror  of  blank  pause,  wherein 
time  seemed  suspended  .  .  .  which  might  have  been  a  day 
or  an  aeon  .  .  .  Sophy  stood  waiting  for  Peppin  to  bring 
her  husband  back  to  her.  She  was  sure  that  Peppin  would 
not  come  back  without  him.  The  primordial  woman  in  her 
had  recognised  primordial  man  in  the  stout  sailor.  The 
feminine  at  its  limit  waited  on  the  completion  of  virility. 
What  she  could  not  do,  Peppin  was  doing.  So  she  waited 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  263 

while  cycles  seemed  to  pass.  She  had  lost  her  sense  of 
time. 

A  sudden  roar  went  up — from  the  shore,  from  the  wait 
ing  boats.  The  dark  blob  of  Peppin's  head  had  appeared 
above  water.  Then  it  was  submerged  again  for  an  instant. 
But  now  the  boats  were  closer — arms  reached  out.  He  was 
caught — sustained  by  those  eager  arms — he  and  his  bur 
den.  Ah ! — they  were  trying  to  lift  what  Peppin  grasped 
into  a  boat — but  that  huge,  flaccid  body  dragged  the  boat- 
edge  over — down — down  to  the  very  water.  A  mass  of 
clutching  hands  grasped  here,  there.  Now  it  was  half  over 
the  edge — but  the  boat  lay  on  her  side.  The  great,  naked 
body  glistened  white  like  a  monstrous  fish  in  the  sunlight. 
Now  .  .  .  now  ...  all  together ! 

There  was  another  roar.  Then  the  sailor  also  was  hauled 
aboard.  .  .  .  The  boat  pulled  for  shore.  .  .  . 


XLIII 

THEY  lifted  him  out  and  laid  him  on  the  warm  beach.  The 
crowd  stood  aside,  respectful  and  expectant.  All  eyes 
turned  to  Sophy.  They  were  waiting  for  the  thrilling 
moment  when  the  stone  image  would  spring  to  life,  shriek 
and  cast  itself  upon  her  husband's  body.  There  was  a 
hush  as  in  a  theatre,  just  before  the  eagerly  expected  ca 
tastrophe  breaks  into  a  scream  or  dagger-stroke.  But  the 
moment  failed  of  its  zest.  Slowly,  as  though  moving  in 
its  sleep,  the  tali  figure  went  over  to  the  drowned  man, 
knelt  down  beside  him,  laid  a  white  hand  on  the  drenched, 
sunburnt  chest.  Then  she  looked  dully  up  at  Peppin,  who 
stood  by,  honest  pity  on  his  rough  face,  the  water  that 
streamed  from  his  clothes  making  a  little  patter  on  the  hot 
pebbles. 

"It  doesn't  beat,"  she  said  in  English,  not  heeding  that 
the  man  could  not  understand  her.  "What  will  you  do 
now  .  .  .?"  she  asked.  And  her  eyes  still  gazed  up  at  the 
sailor  as  though  he  had  been  God. 

The  woman  with  the  heavy  breast,  that  Sophy  had  struck 
in  her  frantic  efforts  to  escape,  began  to  sob.  The  little, 
yellow  wooden  chair  still  bobbed  up  and  down  in  the  sun 
light  as  some  current  bore  it  away  towards  Ghiffa. 


264  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

Peppin  kneeled  down,  too.  He  put  his  square,  dark 
hand,  with  its  broken  nails  and  tattooed  wrist,  beside  the 
white  one. 

Then  he  sprang  up  and  began  fiercely  talking  and  ges 
ticulating  to  the  others.  He  was  telling  them  that  they 
must  help  him  try  to  revive  the  Scior.  They  shrank.  It 
is  not  considered  wise  on  Lago  Maggiore  to  meddle  with 
a  drowned  man  before  the  civil  authorities  come  on  the 
scene.  One  may  get  involved  in  all  sorts  of  unpleasant 
ness.  Peppin  berated  them  roundly,  with  good  work-a- 
day  oaths.  He,  too,  called  them  "Vigliacchi."  But  though 
most  of  his  angry  dialect  was  but  gibberish  to  Sophy,  cer 
tain  words  she  understood.  And  these  wrords  acted  on 
her  like  an  elixir  of  life.  The  blood  flashed  into  her  white 
face.  She  sprang  to  her  feet. 

"I  will  help  you!  Show  me!"  she  cried.  "lo  .  .  . 
lo  .  .  ."  (I — I)  she  kept  repeating,  striking  her  breast 
sharply  to  show  him  what  she  meant.  She  caught  the 
sailor's  hand  in  hers  and  drew  him  towards  Chesney.  She 
pointed  to  the  drowned  man,  and  then  to  herself  and 
Peppin.  In  her  broken  Italian — stammering  with  eager 
ness — she  urged  the  sailor  to  let  her  help  revive  her  hus 
band. 

He  understood,  but  he  was  at  a  loss.  He  knew  that  she 
could  not  assist  in  the  violent  measures  that  were  neces 
sary.  The  drowned  man  must  first  of  all  be  made  to  dis 
gorge  the  water  that  he  had  swallowed.  This  poor  Sciora 
could  not  help  him.  He  stood  bewildered  while  Sophy  held 
his  hand,  pouring  out  her  eager,  broken  words.  .  .  .  And 
as  he  stood  there,  at  his  wit's  end,  a  new  cry  went  up: 

"II  dottore!    II  dottore!" 

The  doctor,  whose  name  was  Morelli,  had  a  way  with 
him  that  Peppin  thoroughly  approved.  He  ordered  the 
curious  throng  to  keep  back,  in  so  sharp  a  tone  of  au 
thority  that  he  wras  actually  obeyed.  Then  he  spoke  to 
Sophy,  very  gently,  but  in  the  same  authoritative  manner. 
He  told  her  that  she  must  leave  him  to  take  at  once  the 
necessary  measures  for  reviving  her  husband. 

"I  implore  you  to  return  to  the  hotel,  signora,"  he  said 
earnestly.  "It  will  not  be  well  for  you  to  remain  here." 

Sophy  rose  at  once,  but  her  eyes  fastened  on  Peppin 's 
face. 

"Will  you  stay  with  him,  too?"  she  asked. 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  265 

"Si!  Si!  Sciora!"  he  answered  eagerly.  "Staro"  (I 
will  stay). 

The  Padrone  came  up  and  offered  her  his  arm.  The  fat, 
kind-hearted  woman  also  came  up,  though  her  great  bust 
still  ached  from  Sophy's  frenzied  blows. 

"Car a  signora,"  she  pleaded  humbly,  ''allow  me  to  ac 
company  you." 

Between  the  Padrone  and  this  kindly  soul  Sophy  went 
obediently  back  to  the  hotel. 

Tilda  and  Rosa  had  both  gone  for  a  walk  with  Bobby 
along  the  high-road.  Tilda  had  missed  one  of  the  smaller 
bags,  and  wished  to  see  if  it  had  been  left  by  mistake  with 
Imigi.  So  the  two  women  had  gone  back  to  Villa  Bianca, 
and  were  there  when  the  accident  happened.  Not  until 
Morelli  and  Peppin  had  been  at  work  together  over  Ches- 
ney  for  twenty  minutes  did  they  return  with  Luigi,  who, 
on  hearing  the  terrible  news,  ran  straight  to  help  resusci 
tate  his  master.  All  the  women  in  the  hotel  gathered  round 
Rosa.  She  yielded  Bobby  to  one  of  them,  and  began  to 
sob  and  strike  her  breast  and  forehead  in  despair. 

Tilda,  her  round  face  blotched  with  pallor,  went  straight 
to  her  lady.  She  found  Sophy  standing  by  a  window  that 
overlooked  the  shore. 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Chesney!"  faltered  the  girl,  beginning  to 
tremble.  "May  I  stay  with  you?" 

"No  .  .  .  please  ..."  said  her  mistress  without  turn 
ing.  The  girl  went  out  obediently,  and  sat  crouched  in  a 
chair  near  the  door.  Some  women  stole  up  and  began 
whispering  gruesome  details  to  her.  She  listened  half- 
unwilling,  half-fascinated.  The  insatiable  craving  of  the 
lower  classes  for  "le  frisson"  made  her  listen,  but  she 
hated  herself  for  doing  it,  and  them  for  telling  her  so 
eagerly.  The  fat  woman,  whom  Sophy  had  not  permitted 
to  remain  with  her,  and  to  whose  care  Rosa  had  given 
Bobby,  took  the  boy  to  her  room  and  fed  him  bon-bons, 
eating  some  herself  to  encourage  him,  and  turning  aside 
every  now  and  then  to  cry  again  over  the  poor  tousin 
whose  Babbo  had  just  been  drowned,  and  who  was  so  in 
nocently  gay  over  this  unexpected  feast  of  sweetmeats. 

And  Sophy,  all  alone  at  her  window  in  the  bleak  hotel 
bedroom,  stood  and  gazed  at  the  little  group  on  the  beach, 
where  Morelli,  Peppin,  and  Luigi  were  striving  to  restore 
her  husband  to  life.  The  first  rigorous  methods  having 


266  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

been  used,  they  had  moved  him  to  the  shadow  of  some  trees 
and  spread  blankets  tinder  and  over  him — only  his  head 
and  the  upper  part  of  his  chest  were  now  exposed.  And  on 
either  side  knelt  the  sailor  and  the  doctor.  They  had  each 
grasped  one  of  the  massive  arms,  and  regularly,  with  a 
machine-like  motion,  they  lifted  these  arms  up  above  the 
prone  head,  then  down  again — up — then  down  again.  So 
powerful  did  the  huge  man  look,  even  thus  outstretched 
upon  the  ground,  that  it  seemed  to  Sophy  as  though  with 
his  naked,  herculean  arms,  he  were  bending  the  two  men 
back  and  forth — back  and  forth.  She  would  not  believe 
that  he  was  dead.  It  was  as  if,  should  she  allow  herself 
for  a  moment  to  believe  it,  he  would  really  die.  It  was  as  if 
his  life  depended  on  her  will  to  believe  in  it.  It  was  im 
possible — that  thus,  in  the  sunlight,  within  a  few  yards  of 
shore,  within  the  sound  of  her  voice,  with  his  midday-meal 
preparing  for  him,  his  clothes  awaiting  him  on  the  warm 
beach — that  thus  in  a  moment — in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye 
— he  should  be  dead.  .  .  . 

Up  and  down — up  and  down  waved  the  massive  arms, 
white  and  gleaming  in  the  glare  from  sky  and  water.  An 
other  figure  joined  the  group.  Sophy  recognised  Tibaldo, 
the  gardener's  boy  from  Villa  Bianca.  The  doctor  said 
something,  turning  his  head  sharply.  Then  she  saw  Luigi 
turn  back  the  blankets,  and  Tibaldo  take  up  a  bottle  that 
had  been  standing  near.  He  poured  stuff  from  this  bottle 
into  Luigi 's  hands,  then  into  his  own.  They  began  rub 
bing  the  naked  man  vigorously.  The  doctor  and  Peppin 
paused  a  moment.  She  saw  Morelli  mop  his  face  with  his 
handkerchief,  and  Peppin  sling  the  sweat  from  his  brow 
with  the  back  of  his  hand.  A  change  was  made.  Now 
it  was  Luigi  and  Tibaldo  who  were  moving  the  great  arms 
up  and  down,  while  Peppin  and  Morelli  rubbed  the  out 
stretched  body  vigorously.  .  .  . 

All  at  once,  without  any  warning,  she  could  not  see  them 
any  longer.  All  that  she  could  see  was  an  endless  reach 
of  gleeful,  bright  blue  water,  and  floating  on  it,  bobbing 
drolly,  a  small,  yellow  chair.  Then  she  saw  nothing — then 
dark  clouds  that  coiled  and  swam.  She  did  not  regain 
consciousness  for  five  hours.  When  she  came  to  herself 
again,  she  was  lying  on  the  bed  with  Tilda  kneeling  at  her 
feet,  rubbing  them.  A  man 's  face  was  bending  over  her — 
the  face  of  Doctor  Morelli.  The  Venetian  blinds  were 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  267 

closed,  making  a  strange  green  light  in  the  room  ...  it 
seemed  to  be  under  water.  She  struggled  to  rise,  feeling 
suffocated — feeling  as  though  she,  too,  were  drowning.  She 
heard  Morelli  take  a  breath  as  of  relief.  Tilda  had  put 
down  her  face  upon  the  bedclothes. 

"How  is  he?  ...  How  is  my  husband?"  she  managed 
to  stammer. 

She  felt  the  girl  sobbing  against  her  feet. 

"Coraggio,  signora  .  .  .  Coraggio  ..."  murmured  the 
doctor.  Then  she  knew.  He  was  dead.  She  sank  again 
into  merciful  depths  of  unconsciousness. 

This  time,  when  she  recovered,  it  was  into  the  tender, 
lustrous  eyes  of  the  Marchesa  Amaldi  that  she  looked  up. 
As  soon  as  Peppin  had  brought  the  news  to  Le  Vigne,  the 
Marchesa  had  set  out  for  Ghiffa.  Amaldi  was  away  on  a 
walking  tour  in  the  Carpathians.  He  had  left  very  sud 
denly.  The  Marchesa  divined  that  it  was  his  feeling  for 
Sophy  that  had  caused  him  to  leave  so  abruptly.  She  ap 
plauded  him  in  her  heart  while  she  ached,  mother-like,  for 
his  unhappiness.  Now  came  this  horrible  disaster.  She 
was  glad  that  Marco  was  away.  Sheer  pity  might  have 
stripped  him  too  bare  before  her,  in  spite  of  his  powerful 
reserve.  And  with  the  sense  of  his  hopeless,  unfortunate 
love  adding  to  her  own  passion  of  pity  for  this  young  crea 
ture  widowed  in  so  horrible  a  way,  the  Marchesa  gathered 
Sophy  as  it  were  into  the  very  shrine  of  mother-tenderness. 
Never  again  after  that  were  things  quite  the  same  between 
them.  Never  again  could  the  Marchesa  look  on  Sophy  only 
as  a  charming  woman  whom  her  son  unfortunately  loved; 
never  again  could  Sophy  forget,  that  on  the  heart  of 
Marco's  mother  she  had  lain  in  that  tragic  hour. 

"Can't  you  cry,  my  poor  darling?  .  .  .  Can't  you 
cry?"  the  Marchesa  kept  murmuring,  her  beautiful  large 
hand  folding  Sophy's  head  to  her  breast,  as  it  had  been 
the  head  of  a  child  that  she  was  suckling.  But  no  tears 
would  come.  It  was  as  though  she  were  bleeding  tears 
inwardly. 

When  she  was  strong  enough  to  rise,  she  said,  whisper 
ing: 

"T  want  to  go  to  him." 

The  Marchesa  assisted  her  to  her  feet  without  a  word. 
In  silence  she  led  her  to  the  communicating  door  be-hind 


268  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

which  her  husband  lay,  then  stepped  aside  for  her  to 
enter. 

Sophy  closed  the  door  softly  as  she  went  in.  It  was  late 
at  night.  Candles  burned  by  the  bed,  on  either  side.  He 
lay  there  immensely,  majestically  long  under  the  white 
sheet.  Sophy  went  forward  unfalteringly,  and  kneeling 
down  beside  him,  lifted  back  the  sheet.  Awe  filled  her  at 
the  icy  splendour  of  that  face.  She  had  not  known  how 
beautiful  he  was,  until  thus  translated  into  cream-hued 
marble.  His  brow  seemed  to  triumph ;  on  his  lips  was  that 
austere,  secretive  smile  as  of  Initiation,  that  only  death 
can  give.  It  seemed  to  her  that  it  was  not  her  husband 
who  lay  there  before  her,  but  a  majestic  High-priest,  dead 
with  the  words  of  some  mysterious  and  awful  ritual  still 
on  his  lips,  now  sealed  with  that  smile  of  ultimate  initia 
tion. 

She  bent  closer,  very  reverently,  and  kissed  the  thick 
fair  hair,  then  the  wonderful,  triumphant  brow.  She  had 
never  before  touched  the  dead.  This  coldness  of  what  had 
been  so  warm  made  her  realise  in  one  sick  throe  that  the 
imagination  of  Divinity  may  be  abominable.  .  .  . 

Then  all  at  once  in  the  stark  silence  of  the  room  she 
became  conscious  of  the  ticking  of  his  watch,  made  res 
onant  by  the  bare  wood  of  the  table  on  which  it  had  been 
placed.  Like  a  little  metal  heart  it  seemed,  continuing 
the  unavailing  minutes  of  the  life  that  had  stopped,  while 
it  went  on.  And  next  to  the  coldness  of  the  familiar  brow, 
that  ticking  of  the  dead  man's  watch  seemed  to  her  the 
most  fearful  thing  that  she  had  ever  known  or  dreamed 
of.  She  sank  back  on  her  knees,  her  hands  folded  upon 
the  bed,  gazing  at  that  loftily  indifferent  face,  listening  to 
the  steady  pulse  of  the  watch.  .  .  .  She  could  not  bring  it 
all  near  her.  A  tragedy  had  taken  place  in  some  far 
planet,  and  this  was  the  mysterious  painting  of  it  on  which 
she  looked.  That  was  not  Cecil  who  lay  there  in  that 
frozen  dignity,  Cecil  who  had  been  like  a  flame  from  the 
hottest  core  of  life's  great  furnace  ...  he  could  r^ver 
have  lapsed  into  such  seemingly  voluntary  passionlessness, 
even  in  death.  Had  there  been  a  frown  of  revolt  on  his 
forehead,  he  would  have  seemed  nearer,  more  real.  Thus, 
he  was  not  Cecil,  but  a  stranger.  .  .  .  She  felt  confused, 
impassive  and  appalled.  She  was  appalled  at  what  she 
thought  her  own  heartlessness.  But  then  why  should  she 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  269 

weep  for  him,  when  he  lay  there  with  such  plenitude  of 
satisfaction  and  agreement  on  his  forbiddingly  beautiful, 
stranger's  face? 

She  went  back  after  an  hour  into  the  next  room.  Her 
face  looked  dull  and  wild  at  the  same  time.  The  Marchesa, 
who  had  lain  down  on  the  bed,  rose  and  drew  her  down  be 
side  her,  keeping  gentle  but  firm  hold  of  her  hand.  Sophy 
submitted  obediently.  She  lay  until  day  without  moving, 
her  eyes  wide  open,  fixed  on  the  opposite  wall.  Now  and 
then  the  Marchesa  would  turn  her  head  cautiously  to  see 
if  by  chance  she  had  fallen  asleep.  But  the  dark  eyes  were 
always  wide  open,  fixed  on  the  bright  green  wallpaper. 

"Poor  girl,"  thought  the  Marchesa.  "Poor  Marco  .  .  . 
she  loved  her  husband  deeply,  in  spite  of  all.  There  may 
be  brain  fever  unless  I  can  make  her  cry  in  some  way. ' ' 

At  dawn  Sophy  was  still  stretched  there  moveless,  her 
eyes  on  the  green  wall  behind  which  Cecil  lay  in  cold,  aloof 
content. 

Kobins  began  their  sweet  autumnal  piping  in  the  hotel 
garden.  A  thought  came  to  the  Marchesa.  Babies  waked 
with  birds.  She  rose  softly,  and  slipped  out  into  the  hall. 
Rosa  and  Bobby  had  been  given  a  room  just  opposite.  The 
Marchesa  entered  without  knocking.  The  wisdom  of  the 
old  nurse  in  the  song  was  in  her  heart.  As  she  had 
thought,  the  boy  was  awake.  He  was  sitting  up  in  bed, 
his  short  red  curls  tousled,  the  sleeves  of  his  blue  flannel 
dressing-gown  that  came  far  down  over  his  hands,  evi 
dently  annoying  him,  for  he  tugged  at  them  impatiently. 
He  was  trying  to  make  two  fiercely  moustachioed  tin  sol 
diers  do  battle  on  the  pillow  that  Rosa  had  laid  before  him. 
Every  time  that  one  soldier  would  almost  clash  swords 
with  the  other,  down  would  come  the  sleeves  like  a  curtain, 
extinguishing  the  warriors. 

"Bad  teeves!"  he  was  scolding  them  as  the  Marchesa 
entered.  "Pias  minga  a  mi"  (You  don't  please  me).  He 
had  picked  up  much  dialect  since  coming  to  the  Lake. 
Rosa,  who  also  waked  with  the  birds,  and  who,  attired  in 
a  red  flannel  petticoat  and  cotton  under-body,  was  washing 
her  face  in  a  corner  of  the  room,  kept  murmuring,  "Pazi- 
enza,  tousin,  pazienza." 

She  looked  up  as  the  Marchesa  entered,  horrified  to  be 
found  by  a  Sciora  in  such  attire.  But  the  Marchesa  did 
not  glance  at  her.  She  went  straight  to  Bobby. 


270  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

He  greeted  her  joyously. 

"My  'ady!  Take  off!"  he  cried,  holding  up  his  muffled 
hands. 

The  Marchesa  talked  with  him  for  about  twenty  min 
utes,  then  she  lifted  him,  all  subdued  and  piteous,  into  her 
arms,  and  carried  him  to  his  mother.  The  sun  had  now 
risen  and  that  green  light  as  of  watery  depths  again  filled 
the  room. 

The  Marchesa  put  the  boy  down  beside  Sophy  without  a 
word.  She  did  not  look  at  him,  but  her  arm  went  round 
him.  Bobby  snuggled  close,  then  lifted  his  head  and  gazed 
into  her  white  face.  He  began  "pooring"  it  with  his  little 
hand.  The  Marchesa  had  turned  back  the  bothersome 
sleeves.  Then  he  knelt  up  to  see  her  better. 

"Poor  dada  .  .  .  dwownded  ..."  he  murmured,  ca 
ressing  her  cheek.  "Poor  muvvah  ...  all  'lone  ..." 
His  lips  began  to  quiver  with  the  sad  sound  of  his  own 
broken  words.  .  .  .  "Don't  c'y  .  .  ."  he  pleaded,  big 
tears  bursting  from  his  own  eyes.  .  .  .  "Bobby  'tay  wiv 
you  .  .  .  Bobby  tate  tare  of  you.  .  .  .  Don't  c'y-  •  •  •" 

And  with  this  he  began  to  sob  himself  as  though  his 
little  heart  would  break. 

Sophy  started  from  her  trance  of  numbness.  She  caught 
the  boy  to  her.  .  .  .  Then  her  tears  came.  .  .  .  Then  she 
remembered  Cecil  as  her  young  lover  .  .  .  her  husband. 
.  .  .  Then  he  became  real  to  her  again,  as  she  clasped  his 
son  in  her  arms  and  they  wept  together. 

The  Marchesa  had  stolen  out. 

"Ringrazio  Dio!"  she  said  in  her  heart.  She,  too,  was 
weeping. 


PART  II 


SOPHY  spent  the  winter  that  followed  her  husband's  death 
in  the  little  cottage  at  Bonchurch.  Her  one  desire,  after 
Cecil's  body  had  been  laid  in  the  Chapel-crypt  at  Dyne- 
hurst,  was  to  return  "to  her  own  land  and  her  own  peo 
ple."  But  Bellamy  had  warned  her  against  an  autumn 
crossing  for  Bobby,  and  the  sudden  change  to  a  severer 
climate.  At  first  she  could  not  bring  herself  to  walk  or 
ride — the  sight  of  blue  water  sparkling  in  the  sun  was  so 
dreadful  to  her.  And  it  grew  to  be  almost  an  hallucination 
that,  whenever  she  looked  on  it,  she  saw  also  a  yellow  chair, 
bobbing  drolly  to  the  motion  of  the  waves.  Little  by  little 
she  dominated  this  aversion  from  the  sea.  Had  it  been  a 
lake  near  which  Bonchurch  lay,  she  could  not  have  borne 
it.  But  here,  after  two  months,  she  began  to  ride  daily, 
and  gradually  grew  strong  again. 

It  was  on  a  lovely  day  in  June  when  she  reached  the 
little  country  station  of  Sweet-Waters.  The  chuckle  of 
Sweet-Water  creek,  that  just  here  made  a  special  music 
among  crowding  stones,  rose  dearly  familiar.  And  there 
— there  were  her  Mountains!  Tears  shut  them  out  for  a 
moment.  Before  she  could  see  them  clearly  again,  Char 
lotte's  arms  were  round  her.  They  clung  together  speech 
less. 

"Oh!"  murmured  Sophy  at  last,  her  face  buried  in 
Charlotte's  neck.  "Oh,  Chartie  .  .  .  how  you  smell  of 
home!" 

This  made  them  both  laugh.  But  they  were  crying,  too. 
The  sisters  loved  each  other  as  twins  sometimes  do,  though 
they  were  not  twins.  Charlotte  was  eight  years  older  than 
Sophy.  And  there,  in  the  broad  afternoon  sunlight,  Sophy 
again  buried  her  face  in  her  sister's  neck  to  savour  the 
sweet  "home"  fragrance. 

271 


272  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

Then  she  put  Bobhy  in  Charlotte's  arras.  Now  Char 
lotte  was  afraid  to  speak.  She  pressed  the  boy  to  her  in 
silence.  At  last  she  said : 

"He  has  your  eyes,  darling,"  adding:  "I've  a  new 
boy  to  show  you,  too,  you  know." 

The  long,  grave  shadows  of  late  afternoon,  in  which 
there  was  no  sadness,  only  the  serene  beauty  of  sleep,  lay 
over  the  rolling  fields  through  which  the  sisters  drove 
homeward,  hand  in  hand.  Each  native  tree  and  wild- 
flower  went  to  Sophy's  heart.  She  so  loved  this  friendly, 
smiling  country,  that  almost  she  believed  it  "loved  her 
back  again,"  as  children  say.  The  silver-poplars  along  the 
road  glittered  whitely  in  a  soft  breeze.  The  sky  changed 
to  sheeted  gold  above  the  bluish  mountains.  As  they  turned 
in  at  the  lawn  of  Sweet-Waters,  the  old  box-shrubs  scraped 
against  the  carriage  in  a  way  that  meant  home,  and  only 
home.  Nowhere  else  in  the  world  were  box-trees  set  so 
close  together  on  a  drive-way,  that  carriages  could  not 
pass  without  being  brushed  by  the  stiff  leaves. 

Sophy  smiled,  catching  at  a  sprig  as  they  passed,  and 
Charlotte,  also  smiling,  said : 

"Yes.    Joe  is  still  promising  me  to  clip  them  properly." 

The  old  red-brick  of  the  house  now  glowed  on  them  be 
tween  the  boughs  of  tulip-trees  and  horse-chestnuts.  They 
passed  the  clump  of  great  acacia  trees,  where  stood  the 
round,  green  tables,  covered  with  pots  of  pink  and  white 
geraniums.  Sophy  recalled  that  day  when  the  London 
window-boxes  had  brought  this  memory  of  home.  Now  she 
was  here.  Home  was  reality — London  the  memory. 

Judge  Macon  came  down  the  front  steps  and  took  her 
in  his  arms  as  though  she  had  been  in  truth  his  sister. 
He  was  much  moved.  Somehow  to  see  her  in  the  dull  black 
of  widow's  weeds  struck  him  as  unnatural.  Like  most 
men,  he  hated  "mourning."  It  hurt  him  to  see  her  bright 
ness  thus  quenched  with  crepe. 

"Doggone  it,  Chartie,"  he  said  to  his  wife  that  night 
when  they  were  alone,  "get  that  black  off  of  our  Sophy 
as  soon  as  you  can.  For  the  Lord's  sake,  get  some  of  it  off 
right  away.  A  human  being  can't  go  through  a  Virginia 
summer  draped  like  a  hearse!" 

Charlotte  said : 

"Oh,  Joe,  don't  talk  so  gruesomely.  She'll  wear  white 
I'm  sure — poor  darling." 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  273 

Then  she  went  to  his  shoulder  and  cried  frankly. 

"I  hate  it  as  much  as  you  do,"  she  said.  "It  almost 
makes  me  'lose  my  religion'  to  think  of  Sophy's  being  a 
widow.  Don't  you  know  how  we — how  every  one — always 
thought  of  Sophy  as  being  brilliant  and  happy  ? ' ' 

' '  Yes,  yes ;  so  we  did,  so  we  did, ' '  he  soothed  her.  Then 
he  added  soberly: 

''But  those  are  just  the  people  who  seem  to  attract  mis 
fortune  .  .  .  like  lightning-rods,"  he  concluded  quaintly. 

As  soon  as  they  had  reached  the  house,  Charlotte  took 
Sophy  upstairs  to  show  her  the  nursery  she  had  arranged 
for  Bobby,  and  the  old  nursery  just  across  the  hall,  that 
she  and  Sophy  used  to  share  together,  and  which  was  now 
to  be  her  sister's  bedroom.  Even  then  Charlotte  had  ven 
tured  to  suggest  timidly: 

"Won't  you  change  to  something  cooler,  dear?" 

She  longed  to  see  Sophy  in  white  blouse  and  duck  skirt 
as  in  old  days.  She  opened  a  closet  door,  suggestively. 
"There  are  some  of  your  summer  things  hanging  here  just 
as  they  used  to.  Mammy  Nan  did  them  up  for  you  her 
self." 

Sophy  stood  with  her  arm  about  Charlotte's  waist,  look 
ing  at  the  freshly  laundered,  white  skirts  that  she  had 
worn  as  a  girl.  They  seemed  like  ghosts  to  her,  gleaming 
there  in  the  dim  closet — phantoms  of  her  dead  self — of  that 
joyous,  exultant,  "cock-sure"  girl  that  had  been  herself 
and  could  never  come  to  life  again.  A  new  sadness  came 
over  her  like  the  sadness  with  which  we  look  on  the  gar 
ments  of  the  dead. 

"No — I  don't  think  I'll  change,  Chartie,"  she  said 
gently.  "This  gown  I  have  on  is  really  cool." 

And  she  picked  up  a  fold  of  her  thin,  crepe  skirt  that 
Charlotte  might  see  for  herself.  She  did  not  realise  that 
it  was  the  blackness  of  her  dress  that  Charlotte  wanted 
changed.  She  was  so  used  to  wearing  black  now  that  she 
felt  more  at  ease  in  it.  It  had  become  a  sort  of  uniform. 
She  was  one  of  the  army  of  sorrow.  To  wear  its  prescribed 
black  made  her  feel  less  conspicuous.  The  repellent  cus 
tom  of  "mourning"  has  this  illogical  consolation  for  its 
adherents. 

But  her  sadness  faded  as  she  looked  round  the  familiar 
room.  The  very  smell  of  it  was  the  same.  A  scent  of  India 


274  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

matting  and  beeswax,  and  the  Russia  leather  of  her  sets  of 
Shakespeare  and  Chaucer.  She  went  from  object  to  object, 
touching  them  lovingly.  Colour  had  come  to  her  face.  Her 
grey  eyes  shone  dark.  She  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  green 
bed  with  its  painted  birds-of-Paradise,  now  but  faint  blurs 
of  gold  and  crimson,  looking  lovingly  at  its  fluted  pillow 
slips  and  coverlet  of  old,  white  "honey-comb." 

"What  happy  dreams  we've  dreamed  there,  Chartie!" 
she  murmured.  "We  were  such  happy  things." 

Charlotte  called  from  the  window  for  Mammy  Nan  to 
bring  the  youngest  of  her  three  sons  to  see  "Miss  Sophy." 
This  was  William  Taliaferro,  usually  called  "Winks," 
Bobby's  senior  by  three  months.  Jack  and  Joey  were  still 
out  somewhere  on  the  farm.  Winks  had  his  mother's 
yellow-hazel  eyes,  dark  curls,  and  decision  of  character. 
He  accepted  Sophy  for  an  aunt,  after  some  solemn  pon 
dering,  and  allowed  her  to  take  him  in  her  arms.  She  bore 
him  across  the  hall  to  "make  friends"  with  his  new  cousin. 
It  was  delightful  to  see  the  two  youngsters  "taking  stock" 
of  each  other.  Like  two  young  cockerels  they  stood,  front 
ing  each  other,  heads  down,  thumbs  home  to  the  hilt  in  red 
mouths,  hackles  ready  to  rise  at  the  least  sign — round  eyes 
fixed  on  round  eyes.  Bobby  was  the  first  to  remove  a  glis 
tening  thumb.  His  delicious  little  grin  shone  forth. 

"Bobby  boy!"  he  announced.     "P'ay  sogers!" 

Winks  considered  a  second  longer.  Then  he,  too,  re 
moved  his  thumb. 

"Mh-mh,"  he  assented,  and  allowed  Bobby  to  take  him 
by  the  hand.  They  trotted  off  like  brothers  born,  to  play 
with  the  tin  soldiers  that  Rosa  had  already  unpacked. 

"Che  amorini!"  sighed  she,  looking  after  them  with 
clasped  hands.  She  did  not  ask  more  of  life  than  two  such 
bambini  to  adore.  Rosa's  was  the  true  mother-heart. 
Whether  born  of  her  own  flesh  or  of  another's,  children 
were  all  in  all  to  her. 

Though  Sophy  felt  so  dusty  from  her  journey,  she  would 
not  take  the  time  for  a  tub,  from  these  first,  wondrous 
hours  of  homecoming.  She  longed  to  be  out  in  the  old 
grounds.  Charlotte  left  her  at  last,  to  "see  about  supper." 
How  the  familiar  phrase  warmed  Sophy's  heart!  She 
peeped  again  into  the  nursery  before  going  down.  She 
had  worried  a  little  as  to  how  Rosa  would  "get  on"  with 
the  darkies.  She  need  not  have  done  so.  She  found  the 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  275 

dear  old  negress  and  the  Lombard  peasant  woman  sitting 
side  by  side.  Rosa  looked  up  as  she  entered,  and  patted 
Mammy  Nan's  rather  embarrassed,  satiny-brown  face. 

"Ees  goo-ood,"  she  cooed.  "La  Mora  e  molto  buona 
.  .  .  molto  simpatica." 

To  hear  Mammy  Nan  called  "the  Moor"  made  Sophy 
smile.  She  stood  there  smiling  at  them. 

"Rosa's  a  mighty  nice  woman,  Mammy,"  she  said,  slip 
ping  easily  into  the  vernacular. 

"She  sho'  do  'pear  so,"  agreed  Mammy  Nan,  amiable 
but  nervous.  It  seemed  so  very  peculiar  to  her  to  have  a 
strange  "white  'ooman"  patting  her  cheek  and  calling  her 
"Cara, "  when  her  name  was  Ann. 


II 

SOPHY  went  out,  while  Charlotte  ' '  saw  about  supper, ' '  and 
wandered  alone  but  not  lonely  through  the  grounds.  It 
was  "sundown,"  as  they  say  in  Virginia.  All  the  west  was 
gold  above  the  darkling  violet  of  the  mountains.  She  went 
along  one  of  the  old  brick  walks  towards  the  garden.  From 
the  stable  the  scent  of  horses  and  fresh  straw  blew  towards 
her,  mingling  with  the  perfume  of  the  June  roses.  This, 
too,  meant  home.  The  stable  was  at  the  foot  of  the  garden. 
Ever  since  she  could  remember,  when  the  wind  was  due 
west,  the  scent  of  "horse"  had  mingled  with  the  scent  of 
flowers. 

The  garden  lay  in  terraces  connected  by  flights  of 
wooden  steps.  She  sat  down  on  the  first  flight,  between 
two  damask-rose  trees,  and  watched  the  swallows  wheeling 
to  nest  against  the  dim  gold  of  the  sky.  A  great  bush  of 
calacanthus  spread  at  her  feet.  She  gathered  some  of  the 
little,  hard,  maroon-coloured  blossoms,  and  put  them  inside 
the  breast  of  her  gown.  They  would  only  give  out  their 
full  sweetness  thus  warmed.  Their  perfume  of  straw- 
berries-in-the-sun  and  fresh  vanilla  was  the  very  essence 
of  "home."  The  tank-tonk  of  cowbells  sounded  along  the 
meadow  field.  The  cows,  just  milked,  were  grazing  leis 
urely  again.  Frogs  crooned  softly  from  the  mill-pond.  A 
screech-owl  trilled. 

The  soft,  fluctuant  ebb  and  flow  of  blowing  foliage — 
like  an  aerial  surge  playing  along  skyey  strands — came  to 


276  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

her  from  the  lawn  above.  She  turned  and  lay  at  full 
length  in  the  warm  grass — breast  to  breast  with  the  earth 
of  home.  Her  heart  beat  strong  and  warm  against  it — her 
lips  pressed  it.  And  a  strange,  tender,  universal  thrill 
such  as  she  had  never  known,  ran  through  her  as  she  thus 
•clasped  and  kissed  the  soil  from  which  she  had  sprung,  and 
to  which  she  would  one  day  return.  .  .  . 

And  suddenly  it  seemed  to  her  that  the  greatest  gift  the 
gods  could  send  her  would  be  the  wish  to  write  again.  Ah, 
if  she,  the  poet  that  was  her  truest  self,  could  only  rise 
again!  It  was  not  a  "resurrection"  but  a  " risorgimento" 
that  she  longed  for.  The  word  came  to  her  with  its  mem 
ory  of  Amaldi.  But  he  seemed  now  only  like  one  of  the 
sad  phantoms  in  her  phantasmal  past.  Nothing,  not  even 
the  lost  spirit  of  poetry,  seemed  to  her  so  unreal  as  her 
past,  leaning  secure  as  she  now  did  on  the  warm  earth  of 
home. 

"Risorgo  ...  I  rise  again  ..."  she  murmured,  pull 
ing  the  purple-headed  meadow-grass  from  its  close  sheath, 
and  nibbling  the  yellow-white  waxen  stalks  absently.  That 
was  a  home-taste !  She  stopped  thinking  more  serious 
thoughts,  to  smile  down  at  the  nibbled  stalk  in  her  hand. 
"You  taste  of  childhood  ..."  she  said  to  the  blade  of 
grass.  Then  she  rose  to  her  feet.  Charlotte  was  calling 
her.  As  she  went  towards  the  house  she  mused : 

"If  I  ever  write  another  book  of  verse,  I  shall  call  it 
'Risorgimento.'  ' 

For  the  next  two  years,  winter  and  summer,  Sophy  re 
mained  at  Sweet- Waters.  She  felt  herself  a  rich  woman  in 
these  days,  for  Gerald  had  insisted  on  continuing  the  al 
lowance  that  he  had  made  Cecil,  to  her  and  Cecil's  son. 
This  allowance  she  found  to  be  two  thousand  pounds  a 
year.  Now  that  she  had  become  a  widow  with  a  son  to  care 
for,  she  grew  thrifty.  During  these  two  years  at  Sweet- 
Waters,  Judge  Macon  invested  for  her  every  penny  of  her 
allowance,  with  the  exception  of  four  hundred  pounds  a 
year.  This  sum,  together  with  her  own  income  of  one 
thousand  dollars,  enabled  her  to  share  the  expenses  of  the 
household  and  provide  comfortably  for  herself  and  Bobby 
in  all  other  respects.  She  remembered  that  at  any  moment 
Gerald  might  marry,  and  the  allowance  cease.  She  knew, 
of  course,  that  in  case  Gerald  died  without  issue,  Bobby 
would  succeed  to  the  title.  About  the  property,  whether 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  277 

it  were  all  entailed  or  only  a  part  of  it,  she  did  not  know. 
She  had  been  quite  happy  to  find  that  under  the  English 
Guardianship  of  Infants  Act,  1886,  she,  the  mother,  was 
sole  guardian  of  her  son,  as  Cecil  had  appointed  no  other. 
One  of  her  greatest  trials,  after  the  first  shock  of  her  hus 
band 's  death,  had  been  the  dread  that  Lady  Wychcote 
might  have  some  control  over  Bobby.  It  was  with  bitter 
reluctance  that  his  grandmother  parted  with  him.  She 
had  exacted  a  promise  from  Sophy  that  she  would  not 
allow  too  long  a  time  to  elapse  before  bringing  him  back  to 
England.  "Five  years  ...  I  must  have  five  years  all  to 
myself,"  Sophy  had  answered.  It  seemed  to  her  that,  even 
in  five  years'  time,  she  would  not  be  able  to  come  to  Dyne- 
hurst  without  horror. 

' '  Do  you  propose  to  make  an  American  of  Cecil 's  son  ? '  * 
Lady  Wychcote  had  asked  bitterly. 

''No.  I  realise  that  Bobby  must  be  educated  in  Eng 
land.  But  he  will  only  be  seven  years  old  in  five  years 
from  now.  I  am  not  so  unreasonable  as  you  think  me.  If 
I  am  to  live  to  take  care  of  him  I  must  go  home  for  a 
time,"  Sophy  had  answered. 

The  quiet  magic  of  that  first  home-coming  held  through 
the  years  that  followed.  If  a  rose  could  "shut  and  be  a 
bud  again"  it  would  feel  much  as  Sophy  felt  during  those 
tranquil  years  at  Sweet-Waters. 

Her  nephews  adored  her.  She  had  "a  way"  with  boys. 
When  she  went  to  ride,  they  usually  scuttled  along  on 
their  ponies,  one  at  either  rein.  Her  "guard  of  honour" 
she  called  them.  Joey,  the  eldest,  went  to  school  in  winter, 
but  Charlotte  taught  Jack  herself — he  was  only  eight.  And 
he  used  to  make  Joey  glum  with  envy  during  the  holidays 
by  telling  him  of  how,  in  the  autumn  evenings,  Aunt  Sophy 
and  he  (Jack)  would  roast  chestnuts  together  before  tea — 
while  she  told  him  "Jim  hummers  of  fairy  stories." 

Sophy  read  a  good  deal,  but  nothing  that  could  touch  her 
too  nearly.  She  was  afraid  of  stirring  the  deeper  self  that 
seemed  so  sound  asleep. 

It  was  odd  how  bits  of  her  own  girlish  verse  had  kept 
haunting  her  ever  since  her  return.  One  she  often  thought 
of  at  this  time  : 

"Frailly  partitioned  is  the  Inn  of  Life: 
I  will  go  very  softly,  lest  perchance 
I  rouse  the  traveller  Sorrow.  ..." 


278  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

During  the  autumn  of  her  first  year  at  Sweet- Waters 
a  strange  quickening  came  to  her  spirit.  It  came  swift  and 
sudden,  without  warning,  as  such  things  always  come. 
"Whereas  I  was  blind,  nowr  I  see,"  said  the  man  restored 
to  sight  by  miracle.  Whereas  Sophy's  creative  will  had 
been  dead  within  her,  now  it  lived.  It  was  like  the  im- 
memorially  old  and  ever  new  mystery  of  conception.  Her 
mind  was  with  child — in  a  supreme,  sweet  pang  it  revealed 
itself.  The  triumphant  blue  of  an  October  sky  glowed 
through  her  window.  It  was  ablaze  with  silver  cloud-sails. 
Sophy  knelt  gazing  up  at  this  splendour,  and  within  her  all 
was  splendour — a  glory  of  thanksgiving — a  glory  of  con 
scious  fertility.  The  majestic  blue  of  the  sky  seemed  to 
her  like  God  manifest. 


Ill 

IT  was  again  June  in  Virginia — the  third  summer  since 
Sophy's  return.  Her  new  volume  of  poems,  Risorgimento, 
had  come  out  that  April.  It  was  being  widely  reviewed. 
The  "people  who  mattered"  had  given  it  praise.  This 
made  her  very  happy.  She  had  a  fortunate  nature.  Things 
did  not  grow  stale  for  her.  The  powers  of  wonder  and  of 
joy  were  very  strong  in  her.  The  lines  of  George  Herbert 
sang  in  her  heart: 

' '  And  now  in  age  I  bud  again, 
After  so  many  deaths  I  live  and  write; 
I  once  more  smell  the  dew  and  rain, 
And  relish  versing:    O  my  only  light, 
It  cannot  be, 
That  I  am  he, 
On  whom  thy  tempests  fell  all  night." 

But  apart  from  the  resurgence  of  her  poetic  gift,  her 
•whole  life  seemed  also  quickening.  As  the  spring  bur 
geoned  and  flowered  into  summer,  she  herself  seemed 
burgeoning  and  flowering.  A  great  restlessness  came  over 
her.  She  felt  impelled  to  rush  out  with  the  tide  of  spring 
into  the  glittering,  newly  wakened  world. 

One  afternoon  there  was  a  big  storm  brewing  at  Sweet- 
Waters.  The  sunlight  was  dulled — the  leaves  hung  list 
less.  Over  the  mountain  just  behind  the  house  a  huge 
cloud  of  thunderous  blue-black  was  swelling  slowly.  Now 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  279 

and  then  came  a  flitter  of  lightning — a  muffled  detonation 
far  away.  Bobby  was  very  much  afraid  of  thunderstorms. 
But  he  was  now  five  years  old.  Sophy  could  not  bear  it 
that  her  boy  should  be  afraid  of  anything.  She  took  him 
in  her  arms  and  went  out  to  watch  the  coming  tempest. 

"See,  Bobby  man,"  she  said.  "The  world's  asleep. 
Now  the  Storm  is  coming  to  wake  her  up. ' ' 

"I  'spec  she'd  wavver  sleep,"  said  Bobby  doubtfully. 

He  gazed  in  awe  at  the  great  cedars,  so  black  and  sullen 
blocked  out  against  the  tremendous  cloud.  The  intense 
stillness  scared  him.  almost  as  much  as  the  approaching 
hurly-burly. 

Suddenly  there  came  a  violet  flash,  followed  by  a  bellow 
ing  blare  of  thunder.  At  the  same  time  a  sibilation  of 
leaves  ran  through  the  sultry  air. 

"Le's  we  go,  muvvah!  Le's  we  go!"  urged  Bobby  in  a 
small  voice. 

"Not  yet,  sweetheart.  It's  so  splendid  out  here.  See 
that  big  cloud  come  flying!  It's  like  Sinbad's  roc  in  the 
fairy  tale.  Don't  you  remember?" 

"I  don't  like  woes,"  said  Bobby  falteringly. 

Now  the  wind  fell  on  them  with  a  shout.  The  trees 
tossed.  They  bowed  wildly,  almost  to  the  sunburnt  earth. 
Twigs  and  leaves  spun  through  the  air.  White  fringes 
streamed  from  the  inky  cloud ;  then  lightning — the  sky 
blazed  with  a  gigantic  frond  of  fire.  A  pulse  stroke — then 
a  shattering,  re-echoing  roar. 

Bobby  pressed  hard  against  his  mother's  breast.  He 
was  too  much  a  man  to  howl,  but  his  heart  was  as  water 
within  him. 

"Le's  go  now,  muvvah,"  he  whispered. 

"Just  a  minute  more,  darling.  Don't  you  want  to  see 
the  rain  come  over  the  mountain?  Hark!  You  can  hear 
it — hundreds  of  little  glass-slippered  feet,  like  Cinderella's 
— running — running 

This  idea  fascinated  Bobby  for  a  second,  but  another 
blast  of  thunder  was  too  much  for  him.  He  began  to 
tremble. 

"Darling,"  coaxed  Sophy,  "surely  you  aren't  afraid  of 
God's  own  thunder?" 

"Don't  like  Dod,"  said  Bobby. 

"You  mustn't  say  that,  sweetheart.  God  made  the  thun 
der,  but  he  made  you  and  mother,  too.  He  loves  you." 


280  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

"El  pias  minga  a  mi"  (He  doesn't  please  me),  said 
Bobby  firmly. 

Now  the  rain  swirled  over  the  mountain.  In  grey-white, 
hissing  clouds  it  came,  as  though  the  earth  were  red-hot, 
and  the  cold  drops  burst  into  steam  as  they  smote  it. 
Sophy  ran  into  the  house  with  Bobby.  She  took  him  to  the 
upper  hall,  and  knelt  down  before  a  door  that  opened  upon 
the  railed  roof  of  the  front  portico. 

"Ah,  be  a  man,  Bobby,"  she  pleaded.  "You're  the 
only  man  mother's  got  in  all  the  world." 

He  stood  with  both  arms  about  her  neck.  The  bright, 
buff  freckles  showed  up  clearly  on  his  pale  little  face.  But 
with  under-lip  thrust  out  and  brows  drawn  down,  his  eye 
lids  winking  with  every  flash  of  lightning,  he  looked  the 
storm  firmly  in  the  face,  because  "Muvvah"  had  begged 
him  to  be  a  man. 

Charlotte,  coming  upstairs  to  see  that  all  window-shut 
ters  were  properly  closed,  found  them  kneeling  there  to 
gether.  She  had  hardly  appeared  before  there  came  a  flash 
and  crash  in  one,  so  appalling  that  Bobby  could  resist  no 
longer.  He  flattened  himself  against  his  mother's  breast 
and  shouted  clamorously  to  be  removed. 

Then  Sophy  turned  and  slipped  his  hand  into  Char 
lotte's.  An  inspiration  had  come  to  her. 

"There!"  she  said.  "Stay  safe  with  Aunt  Chartie  and 
watch  mother!  Mother's  not  afraid!" 

The  next  moment  she  was  out  in  the  scented  downpour. 
To  and  fro  she  ran,  laughing.  Her  sleeveless  wrapper  of 
white  muslin  was  soon  soaked  through.  The  wind  beat  it 
close  to  her  in  fine,  rippled  lines.  She  looked  like  a  living 
figure  from  Tanagra.  And  she  had  never  felt  anything 
more  exquisite  than  this  cool,  pelting  of  summer  rain 
against  her  whole  body. 

Now  and  then  flares  of  lightning  would  illumine  her, 
throwing  her  light,  drenched  figure  into  relief  against  the 
wind-blown  leaves.  She  seemed  dancing  to  great  tam 
bourines  of  thunder.  Bobby,  quite  made  over  by  his 
mother's  bravery,  gazed  on  enraptured.  She  called  to 
him  as  she  whirled : 

' '  Look,  Bobby !  See  how  mother  loves  God 's  splendid 
storm ! ' ' 

Suddenly  the  boy  broke  from  Charlotte's  grasp.  He 
sprang  out  into  the  tempest  towards  his  mother. 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  281 

"Me,  too!"  he  shouted.    "Viva  Dio!"  (Long  live  God!) 

Sophy  was  still  smiling  to  herself  over  this  "Viva  Dio!" 
as  she  braided  her  damp  hair  into  a  loose  plait  before 
going  down  to  supper.  The  placid  life  at  Sweet-Waters 
was  very  old-fashioned.  During  the  hot  weather  there  was 
no  dinner  served,  only  this  light,  simple  meal  at  seven 
o  'clock. 

"How  like  me  Bobby  is,"  she  thought.  "I'm  always  re 
belling  against  the  Deity,  and  then  crying  'Viva  Dio!'  in 
the  end." 

The  storm  had  passed.  She  went  and  stood  at  her  win 
dow,  drawing  in  deep  breaths  of  rain-freshened  air,  dense 
with  sweet-shrub  and  honeysuckle.  A  serene  level  light 
lay  upon  the  glistening  grass — the  "clear  shining  after 
rain."  Now  and  then  a  shower  of  heavy  drops  loosened 
by  the  breeze  pattered  through  the  magnolia  tree  near  by. 
The  great  tree,  splendid  with  creamy  blossoms,  looked  as 
though  covered  by  a  flight  of  doves.  The  birds  were  at 
their  evening  gossip  as  though  no  storm  had  ever  been. 
One  alighted  on  a  branch  close  to  her  window,  beside  one 
of  the  white,  chalice-like  flowers,  and  fluffing  up  its 
feathers  in  a  sort  of  musical  frenzy,  began  its  joyous  song. 

Sophy's  heart  swelled.  It  seemed  to  her  that  she  and 
the  bird  and  the  white,  impassioned  flower,  and  the  spent 
storm,  and  repentant  Bobby  crying  "Viva  Dio!"  were  all 
one.  The  whole,  glad,  drenched,  shining  earth  and  all  that 
clung  to  it  seemed  shouting  "Viva  Dio!" 

And  she  stretched  out  her  arms  as  though  to  embrace 
this  thrilling  wonder  called  life,  so  that  the  bird  broke  off 
its  song,  and  flew  away  with  a  loud  frrrrt!  of  startled 
wings,  leaving  the  great  white  flower  trembling  as  with 
ecstasy.  .  .  . 

She  put  on  an  old,  corn-coloured  muslin  frock  for  sup 
per,  made  cottage-fashion  with  a  soft  kerchief.  It  was  one 
of  her  girlhood's  dresses.  She  was  proud  to  find  how 
easily  it  hooked  about  her  slim  waist.  She  was  still  as 
slender  as  she  had  been  at  twenty.  As  she  ran  lightly 
downstairs  she  sang  to  a  tune  of  her  own  improvisation : 
' '  For  the  rain  is  over  and  gone  .  .  .  the  time  of  the  sing 
ing  of  birds  has  come  ..." 

Her  song  stopped  suddenly.     The  last  turn  of  the  stair- 


282  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

case  had  brought  her  face  to  face  with  a  little  group  in 
the  lower  hall — Judge  Macon,  Charlotte,  and  two  men. 
One  was  her  cousin  Aleck  Macfarlane,  one  was  a  stranger 
— a  young  fellow  of  about  twenty-six.  Sophy  was  struck 
by  the  pure  Greek  type  of  his  head,  silhouetted  against 
the  outer  green  of  the  wet  lawn.  It  looked  like  some  classic 
bas-relief,  seen  so  in  shadow  against  the  light,  gleaming 
grass — bronze  on  a  background  of  verdigris.  He  was  in 
troduced  by  Macfarlane. 

"My  friend,  Morris  Loring — 

Sophy  learned  that  they  had  been  caught  by  the  storm 
when  they  were  about  a  mile  from  Sweet-Waters.  They 
had  taken  refuge  in  a  farm-house,  and  then  ridden  on. 

""We  got  horribly  muddy,"  said  Loring,  glancing  down 
at  his  riding  breeches  and  puttees  which  were  plastered 
with  red  clay.  He  had  a  fresh,  clear  voice.  Sophy  guessed 
that  he  was  a  New  Yorker.  Now  that  she  saw  his  face  in 
the  light,  she  thought  it  manly  in  spite  of  being  beautiful. 
She  had  never  before  seen  a  man's  face  that  she  thought 
beautiful.  It  struck  her  as  very  singular.  But  even  in 
England,  where  the  Anglo-Saxon  race  so  often  produces 
perfect  Greek  types,  she  had  never  seen  anything  so  Hel 
lenic  as  young  Loring.  In  figure  he  was  tall  but  slight ; 
the  regular  horseman's  figure — flat-thighed  and  slim  of  leg. 
His  riding-clothes  were  almost  too  well  cut,  Sophy  thought. 
Loring  appeared  to  her  a  little  too  much  like  the  smart 
tailor's  advertisements  of  sportsmen  attired  for  riding. 
But  she  enjoyed  looking  at  him.  She  wondered,  amused, 
if  he  didn't  enjoy  looking  at  himself.  He,  on  his  side,  was 
thinking :  ' '  Lord  !  What  a  dazzler !  She  wins,  hands 
down,  over  anything  I've  ever  seen!" 

Sophy  suddenly  remembered  the  loose  plait  that  hung 
below  her  waist.  She  laughed,  colouring  a  little.  Loring 
couldn't  get  his  eyes  away  from  her. 

"You  must  excuse  my  appearing  as  Gretchen  ..."  she 
said.  "I  got  caught  in  the  rain,  too.  I  left  my  hair  down 
because  it  wasn't  quite  dry." 

"You  really  needn't  excuse  yourself  for  the  way  you 
look,  Sophy, ' '  said  Macfarlaue  dryly. 

Sophy  slipped  her  arm  through  his. 

"Old  humbug!"  she  said  affectionately.  She  was  very 
fond  of  Aleck.  He  was  about  ten  years  older  than  she  was 
and  had  taught  her  how  to  ride. 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  283 

Judge  Macon  took  the  two  men  off  to  tidy  up  a  bit  before 
supper.  As  soon  as  they  had  disappeared,  Charlotte 
darted  to  Sophy.  She  began  speaking  rapidly  in  a  nervous 
whisper. 

"Sophy!  ...  I'm  dreadfully  worried — Machunk  Creek 
is  'up'  and  those  two  boys  (all  men  under  fifty  had  been 
'boys'  to  Charlotte  ever  since  the  birth  of  her  first-born), 
they'll  have  to  stay  all  night  with  us.  And  they  haven't  a 
thing  to  sleep  in.  .  .  ." 

"Well,  but  Joe  will  lend  them  things  of  course,"  said 
Sophy. 

Charlotte's  anxiety  did  not  abate. 

"That's  just  it!"  she  whispered  hoarsely.  "This  Mr. 
Loring  looks  so  very  fashionable.  And  Joe  never  will  wear 
anything  but  those  long,  old-fashioned  night-shirts!  I 
don't  see  how  I  can  put  one  of  Joe's  night-shirts  on  the 
Blue-room  bed  for  Mr.  Loring,  Sophy!  Aleck's  different 
— I  don't  mind  Aleck." 

Sophy  stared  at  her  for  a  second,  then  she  sat  down  on 
the  lowest  step  of  the  stairs  and  rocked  to  and  fro,  hiding 
her  face. 

"Sophy!  Sophy!"  said  Charlotte,  still  in  that  raucous 
whisper,  and  shaking  her  vexedly  by  the  shoulder.  ' '  Stop  ! 
Get  up  and  help  me!  You're  too  trying  sometimes!" 

Sophy  tried  earnestly  to  speak,  but  laughter  kept  stop 
ping  her. 

Charlotte  shook  her  again. 

"How  selfish  of  you,  Sophy!  I  can't  see  where  the  fun 
comes  in.  I  tell  you  I  don't  want  to  lay  out  one  of  poor, 
dear  Joe 's  night-shirts  for  that  young  man  to  snigger 
over. ' ' 

"I  ...  I  don't  believe  he's  the  .  .  .  the  'sniggering' 
sort  ..."  murmured  Sophy,  wiping  her  eyes. 

"Well,  to  sneer  at,  then.  You've  got  to  help  me.  Can't 
you  think  of  anything?" 

Sophy  considered.  Suddenly  her  face  became  convulsed 
again. 

"I  ...  I  might  lend  him  ...  a  pair  of  B — Bobby's 
pyjamas  ..."  she  faltered. 

Charlotte  turned  on  her  heel. 

"Very  well,"  she  said  haughtily.  But  Sophy  ran  after 
her,  repentant.  She  hooked  a  cajoling  arm  in  Charlotte's 
stiffened  elbow. 


284  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

"Don't  get  huffy,  dear,"  she  coaxed.  "I'm  sure  one  of 
Joe's  night-shirts  will  do  perfectly  .  .  .  really  I  do.  ..." 

They  finally  went  to  the  Blue-room  together — Charlotte 
with  a  white  object  folded  very  small  over  one  arm.  She 
laid  it  on  the  foot  of  the  bed,  outside  the  old  brocade  quilt. 
Then  she  stood  looking  discontentedly  down  on  it. 

"I'm  sure  it  looks  very  nice,"  said  Sophy. 

But  Charlotte  stood  absorbed.     Presently  she  said: 

"I  really  think  I'd  better  unfold  it.  He  might  think 
it  was  an  extra  pillow-case." 

And  she  displayed  the  quaint  garment  at  greater  length. 

"Thank  heaven  I  marked  these  myself  with  white  em 
broidery  cotton,"  she  then  murmured.  "Joe  will  mark 
them  with  that  horrid,  indelible  ink  if  I  don't  watch  him 
like  a  hawk.  Do  you  think  it  looks  better  so?" 

"I  think  it  looks  perfectly  charming,"  said  Sophy 
gravely.  Then  she  went  off  again  into  uncontrollable  fits 
of  laughter.  "I  ...  I  even  think  ..."  she  stammered, 
' '  that  it  will  be  becoming.  ..." 

Charlotte  turned  her  back  and  left  the  room,  perfectly 
outdone  with  her.  But  all  during  supper  Sophy  kept 
smiling  now  and  then,  as  she  pictured  Morris  Loring's 
classic  head  emerging  from  the  Judge's  ample  night-robe. 


IV 

OCTOBER  had  come.  Sophy  and  Morris  Loring  were  walk 
ing  together  towards  the  woods  that  lay  along  the  hills 
behind  Sweet-Waters.  He  had  ridden  over  from  the  Mac- 
farlanes'  and  was  to  stay  to  dinner.  Bobby  trotted  soberly 
by  his  mother,  his  mittened  hand  in  hers.  He  was  a  reti 
cent  child  about  his  deepest  feelings.  One  of  these  feel 
ings  was  that  he  did  not  like  Loring.  As  he  had  said  of 
the  Deity  in  His  form  of  Jupiter  tonans  so  he  said  in  his 
heart  of  Loring:  "El  pias  minga  a  mi."  Bobby  thought 
in  the  Lake  dialect.  It  was  his  medium  of  intercourse  with 
Rosa.  lie  did  not  know  why  he  did  not  like  Loring.  The 
young  man  was  particularly  nice  to  him — or  tried  to  be. 
Children  are  peculiar.  What  seems  "being  nice"  to  grown 
ups,  does  not  always  appeal  to  them  by  any  means.  For 
one  thing,  Loring  always  addressed  him  as  "General." 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  285 

This  soldierly  epithet  would  have  pleased  some  little  boys. 
It  did  not  please  Bobby.  He  preferred  to  be  called  by  his 
own  name.  Doubtless  jealousy  had  something  to  do  with 
his  dislike  of  Loring.  Until  the  young  man  had  appeared 
in  the  neighbourhood,  Bobby  had  had  his  mother  almost 
entirely  to  himself.  Now  "Mr.  Lorwing, "  like  the  world 
in  the  great  sonnet,  was  too  much  with  them.  He  even  in 
truded  on  the  hours  heretofore  sacred  to  Bobby — firelight 
hours  just  before  bedtime,  when  "Muvvah"  used  to  tell 
such  lovely  fairy  tales :  hours  like  this  one,  in  which  Bobby 
had  looked  forward  to  gathering  the  first  chestnuts  of  the 
season — just  he  and  "Muvvah,"  with  Rosa  to  throw  sticks 
into  the  big  trees  for  them.  So  Bobby  trotted  along  in 
sober  silence,  wishing  that  something  would  happen  to 
make  Mr.  Lorwing  go  away  forever. 

Rosa  walked  happily  in  the  rear,  gathering  a  great  posy 
of  autumn  flowers. 

The  afternoon  was  lovely — mild  yet  sparkling.  The  blue 
autumnal  haze  veiled  everything.  The  sky  was  almost 
purple.  Against  it  melted  clouds  of  silverish  azure.  Just 
over  the  yellowing  wood  hung  a  frail  day-moon. 

"What  a  blue  day!"  said  Sophy,  looking  up  at  the 
fragile  disk.  "Even  the  moon  is  blue — it  looks  as  if  it 
were  made  of  thin  blue  crystal.  ..." 

Loring  was  looking  at  her. 

"That's  a  good  omen — a  'blue  moon,'  :'  he  said.  "All 
sorts  of  wonders  happen  in  a  'blue  moon.'  : 

"Well,  we  might  find  a  blue  rose,"  said  Sophy,  smiling. 

"I've  found  one." 

' '  Ah  !    Shall  you  press  it  or  preserve  it  in  spirits  ? ' ' 

"Blue  roses  don't  fade." 

Sophy  answered  flippantly  that  in  that  case  he  would 
always  be  provided  with  a  unique  and  inexpensive  "but 
ton-hole" — much  more  unique  and  economical  than  Mr. 
Chamberlain's  orchid. 

Loring  was  still  looking  at  her.  She  did  not  look  at  him, 
but  kept  glancing  about  her  at  the  October  landscape  that 
she  loved  best  of  all. 

"It  seems  queer  that  you're  so  contented  in  this  quiet 
old  place  after  having  led  such  a  brilliant  life  abroad,"  he 
said.  This  strain  of  thought  had  been  roused  in  him  by 
the  mention  of  Mr.  Chamberlain's  orchid.  "I  should  think 
you'd  long  for  it  again." 


286  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

"Not  yet,  "said  Sophy. 

His  face  lighted. 

"  'Not  yet'?  Then  you  do  feel  sometimes  that  this 
buried-alive-life  won't  satisfy  you  forever?" 

"Oh,  no!    I  shall  fly  far  and  wide  again  some  day." 

Loring  was  silent.  II is  heart  gave  a  hot  twist.  This  was 
just  what  he  most  feared,  that  she  would  "fly  far  and 
wide"  away  from  him.  He  had  never  in  all  his  exceed 
ingly  wilful  life  desired  anything  with  the  frantic  ve 
hemence  that  he  desired  Sophy.  And  he  was  not  accus 
tomed  to  having  his  desires  denied  him.  At  home  the 
household  word  was:  "Morry  has  such  a  strong  will." 
This  had  been  the  slogan  of  his  childhood:  "My  will — or 
nothing.  My  will — or  a  burst  blood-vessel.  Death  or 
punishment  in  any  form — rather  than  yield  my  will."  He 
had  been  rather  delicate  as  a  child.  So  his  parents  had 
preferred  concession  to  the  convulsions  with  which  he 
threatened  them  whenever  he  was  crossed  in  any  way.  It 
was  a  wonder  that  he  grew  up  to  likable  manhood.  Yet 
people  thought  him  "perfectly  charming" — a  bit  spoiled, 
but  delightful.  Girls  called  him  "fascinating."  His  own 
pals  said :  ' '  Morry  Loring 's  a  good  sort.  A  bit  ugly  if 
you  cross  him — you've  got  to  know  how  to  handle  him; 
but  he's  all  right."  By  "handling"  Loring  they  meant 
that  one  must  seem  to  give  him  his  way  while  skilfully  get 
ting  one's  own.  This  was  not  always  practicable.  Then 
coolnesses  sprang  up.  Only  two  out  of  the  old  Harvard 
set  stuck  to  him.  But  he  was,  in  fact,  not  at  all  a  bad  sort 
— provided  that  you  were  willing  not  to  announce  too 
positively  and  publicly  that  your  soul  was  your  own.  And 
his  will  was  certainly  strong.  It  was  a  brand-new  sensa 
tion  for  him  to  will  so  ardently  the  possession  of  a  thing 
which  he  was  in  sick  doubt  of  securing.  It  had  a  poignant 
yet  terrible  charm  of  sheer  novelty.  And  at  the  same  time 
he  experienced  an  inner  revelation  which  shook  him  even 
more.  It  was  the  undreamed  of  capacity  for  adoration. 
There  was  no  denying  it — his  spirit  was  on  its  knees  to 
Sophy.  She  seemed  to  him  as  beautifully  overwhelming 
as  the  suddenly  revealed  goddess  to  the  shepherd  of  Mount 
Ida.  There  was  about  her,  in  addition  to  the  aura  of 
beauty  and  talent,  the  glamour  of  a  woman  who  has  moved 
brilliantly  in  a  brilliant  world.  Had  he  been  told  that  this 
nai'f  snobbishness  had  much  to  do  with  his  novel  emotion 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  287 

of  adoration,  he  would  have  received  the  information  with 
a  tempest  of  incredulous  and  outraged  wrath.  Yet,  though 
undoubtedly  due  to  it  in  part,  there  was  also  genuine  hu 
mility  in  his  love  for  Sophy — that  romantic  abasement  of 
self  which  makes  a  man  find  a  subtle  pleasure  in  the 
realisation  of  his  own  unworthiness. 

Loring  had  come  down  to  Aleck  Macfarlane's  country 
place  to  buy  hunters.  When  he  saw  Sophy,  he  believed 
suddenly  in  Fate.  No  mere  chance  wish  to  buy  hunters 
had  sent  him  to  Virginia.  Here  was  the  Lady  of  Legend 
— the  Princess  out  of  the  fairy-tale  books  of  his  boyhood. 
He  had  always  heard  of  Virginia  as  romantic.  Now  he 
found  that  it  was  inhabited  by  Romance  herself  in  the 
person  of  Sophy  Chesney.  He  had  heard  often  of  the  Hon. 
Mrs.  Cecil  Chesney.  He  knew  that  she  ' '  had  written  some 
thing. "  Poems  were  not  much  "  in  his  line. "  Yet  he  sent 
to  Brentano  's  for  Sophy 's  poems  the  day  after  he  met  her. 
He  was  frankly  disappointed  in  them.  He  had  expected 
something  more  fiery.  And  he  tried  to  get  a  volume  of 
her  first  book,  The  Shadow  of  a  Flame.  But  it  was  out  of 
print.  He  had  given  Brentano  an  order  to  find  it  for  him. 
Only  that  morning  the  book  had  arrived  from  England. 
He  was  still  tingling  with  the  fearless,  young  passion  of 
her  printed  words,  as  he  walked  now  beside  her.  Her  own 
words  seemed  to  put  him  from  her — far  back  with  that 
past  self  which  she  no  longer  was,  and  which  he  craved  to 
have  her  be  again.  And  how  young  she  looked  .  .  .  what 
a  girl!  It  was  absurd,  vexatious,  incredible,  impossible 
that  so  keen  a  flame  should  have  died  down  into  the  white 
ash  of  philosophy  ...  as  expressed  in  her  latest  poems. 

"A  penny  ..."  said  Sophy. 

His  long  silence  disturbed  her.  He  gazed  down  at  her, 
his  bold  eyes  softening. 

"I  was  thinking  that  you  looked  about  nineteen,  with 
that  black  bow  on  your  hair,"  he  said. 

"And  you  say  that  as  if  you  were  about  ten,"  she  re 
torted,  laughing. 

"I  don't  feel  ten." 

"And  I  don't  feel  nineteen." 

"Yet  you're  really  not  quite  old  enough  to  be  so  devilish 
motherly  with  me."  His  tone  was  quite  pettish. 

She  was  teasing  him  on  purpose.  She  had  found  out  at 
once  that  he  was  badly  spoilt.  It  pleased  her  to  see  him 


288  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

wince,  and  flush,  helpless  under  her  amiable  elderliness. 
She  liked  him  very  much,  but  she  didn't  want  any  love- 
making,  though  she  didn't  mind  his  being  so  evidently  in 
love  with  her.  She  thought  that  a  "disappointment  in 
love"  might  do  him  no  end  of  good — teach  him  that  he 
couldn't  "swing  the  earth  a  trinket  at  his  wrist" — avenge 
some  of  the  many  young  women  with  whom  she  felt  sure 
that  he  had  flirted  outrageously.  One  wasn't  given  a 
Greek  head,  many  millions,  and  an  exaggerated  sense  of 
one's  Ego,  in  order  that  one  might  practise  the  homelier 
virtues,  such  as  unselfishness. 

At  his  "devilish  motherly"  she  laughed  out — her  ring 
ing,  contralto  laugh,  that  was  so  delicious  and  that  made 
him  want  to  shake  her  and  to  kiss  her  violently,  at  one  and 
the  same  time. 

"  'Devilish  motherly'  ..."  she  repeated.  "I'm  sorry  I 
remind  you  of  Medea — she 's  the  only  person  I  can  think  of 
who  was  'devilish  motherly'  ..." 

Before  Loring  could  reply,  Bobby's  voice  broke  in, 
austere  and  haughty. 

"My  muvvah  is  -not  deviliss, "  he  said. 

Loring  went  round  beside  him. 

"Bully  for  you.  General!"  he  exclaimed.  "You'd  fight 
a  duel  with  me  this  minute,  if  you  could — wouldn't  you?" 

Bobby  pressed  close  to  Sophy.  He  refused  to  yield  Lor 
ing  his  other  hand. 

' '  Please  go  away, ' '  he  said  coldly.    ' '  I  don 't  want  you. ' ' 

"Well  .  .  .  your  'muvvah'  don't  want  me  either." 

"No.    She  wants  me,"  said  Bobby. 

He  looked  up  at  Sophy,  his  chin  quivering.  He  resented 
Loring 's  imitation  of  the  way  that  he  pronounced 
"mother." 

"Don't  you?"  he  appealed  to  her. 

She  stooped  to  him. 

"More  than  anything  in  the  whole,  round  world  or  the 
blue  sky,"  she  reassured  him.  He  smiled  to  feel  her  lips 
on  his  cheek.  Close  in  her  ear  he  whispered : 

"We  don't  want  him,  do  we?    Make  him  go  away." 

"No.    We  must  always  be  polite,"  she  whispered  back. 

He  sighed  deeply. 

"It's  awful  hard  being  p'lite,"  he  mourned.  "Mos'  as 
hard  as  being  good." 

They  all  walked  on  in  silence  for  a  few  moments. 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  289 

Then  Bobby  said,  with  what  Sophy  called  his  "inspira 
tional  look": 

'God  ain't  p'lite,  Muwah." 

'  Hello ! ' '  laughed  Loring. 

'  Sssh ! ' '  said  Sophy,  flashing  him  a  vexed  look. 

'Why,  darling?"  she  asked  her  son. 

'Cause  ev'y  night  I  talks  and  talks  to  God,  an'  He 
never  even  says,  'Mh-Mh,  Bobby.'  Vat  ain't  p'lite — 
are  it?" 

Loring  strode  on  ahead  to  have  his  laugh  out.  He 
thought  Bobby  the  "funniest  little  beggar"  in  the  world. 
She  was  always  scolding  him  for  laughing  at  the  boy  out 
of  season. 

"Children  and  dogs  hate  being  laughed  at,"  she  now 
told  him.  "Didn't  you  hate  being  laughed  at  when  you 
were  little?" 

"Can't  remember,"  said  Loring.  "I  suppose  so.  But 
as  for  that,  men  don't  like  being  laughed  at  either." 

"You  don't,  I  know.    But  it's  very  good  for  you." 

"Why  isn't  it  good  for  the  General?" 

"My  name's  Bobby,"  came  the  small  but  haughty  voice. 
At  times  her  son  reminded  Sophy  strikingly  of  Cecil.  This 
was  just  Cecil's  tone  with  presuming  strangers. 

"Very  well,  Bobby — do  you  know  why  it's  good  for  me 
to  be  laughed  at,  but  not  for  you  ? ' ' 

"I  don't  fink  it  matters,"  said  Chesney's  son,  again  in 
exactly  the  tone  that  Chesney  would  have  used.  Sophy 
felt  too  awed  to  feel  amused.  She  felt  that  with  the  law 
of  continuance  thus  powerful,  death,  in  one  sense,  ceased 
to  exist. 

"You  don't  like  me,  do  you,  Bobby?"  asked  Loring, 
looking  queerly  at  the  child. 

"Not  much — p'ease  to  'scuse  me,"  replied  Bobby. 

"Funny  little  tot  you  are,"  said  Loring,  rather  hurt. 
Then,  to  his  surprise,  he  suddenly  realised  that  he  on  his 
side,  didn't  really  like  Bobby.  It  seemed  as  if  the  child 
came  wilfully  between  him  and  Sophy.  He  walked  on 
moodily,  cutting  with  his  riding-crop  at  the  pyred  flames 
of  golden-rod,  his  handsome,  short-lipped  mouth  very 
sullen. 

"What's  the  matter?"  asked  Sophy,  to  break  another  too 
long  silence.  "You  look  like  a  tinted  marble  of  Endymion 
in  the  sulks. ' ' 


290  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

Loring  turned  on  her  passionately. 

"Mrs.  Chesney, "  said  he,  "would  you  mind  letting  up 
on  my  rotten  appearance?  It  isn't  my  fault  that  I've  got 
a  nose  like  a  damned  statue's!" 

His  face  was  scarlet.  Sophy  put  her  hands  up  to  her 
own  face  to  temper  the  brutality  of  her  wild  mirth. 


V 

BUT  this  laughter  of  Sophy  was  so  winsome,  as  she  glanced 
at  him  through  her  shielding  fingers,  that  Loring  gave  way 
and  began  to  laugh  himself.  This  was  another  new  sensa 
tion  for  him — the  joining  in  a  laugh  against  himself. 

"I'm  a  frightful  ass,  I  know,  to  mind  so  much  when 
you  tease  me,"  he  said  as  they  walked  on.  "But  you  make 
me  feel  such  a  fool — such  a  'pretty  fellow'  ..." 

"You  are  a  pretty  fellow,"  murmured  Sophy.  "When 
you  get  red  with  anger  like  that  you're  quite  dazzling." 

"Oh,  I  say!  Don't  you  think  you're  a  bit  too  hard  on 
me?"  Loring  protested. 

He  still  writhed  inwardly.  It  is  acute  agony  to  six  and 
twenty  to  be  made  fun  of  by  the  object  of  its  adoration. 

Bobby's  voice  piped  in  again. 

"7  don't  fink  you're  pretty,"  he  remarked. 

"Thanks,  old  chap,"  said  Loring,  this  time  without 
laughter. 

They  had  reached  the  woods,  on  whose  edge  stood  the 
big  chestnuts,  all  one-sided  from  the  reaching  of  their 
branches  towards  the  free  sunlight  of  the  open.  Behind 
them  stretched  the  forest,  a  glitter  of  trembling  yellow, 
shot  with  the  velvet  black  of  twigs  and  stems.  Here  and 
there  a  bough  of  maple  fluttered  as  with  swarms  of  scarlet 
butterflies.  Above  the  leathern  carpet  of  last  year's  leaves 
shone  the  lilac  disks  of  autumn  asters,  and  the  brown,  bee- 
like  heads  of  self-heal,  set  with  tiny,  purple  trumpets.  The 
chestnuts  were  thick  with  greenish-brown  burs. 

"I  see  'em!  I  see  'em!"  Bobby  cried,  dancing  gleefully, 
and  making  a  noiseless  clapping  with  mittened  hands. 
For  a  moment  the  sight  of  the  clustered  burs-  among  the 
pointed,  russet  leaves  had  made  him  forget  his  Kill-joy, 
Loring. 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  291 

"Oh!    Che  splendore!"  cried  Rosa,  running  up. 

She  and  Loring  threw  sticks  among  the  laden  branches. 
The  nuts  came  down  with  pleasant  swups  upon  the  smooth, 
thick  mat  of  dead  leaves. 

It  was  charming  to  kneel  there  in  the  warm  October 
sunlight,  at  the  edge  of  the  rustling  wood,  pounding  away 
the  prickly  hulls  from  the  brown,  smooth  chestnuts.  A 
fresh,  pleasant  scent  rose  from  the  bruised  hulls.  The 
breath  of  the  autumn  wood  was  keenly  sweet.  It  smelt  of 
wild  grapes  and  mushrooms.  From  a  field  close  by  stole 
the  odour  of  pumpkins  that  had  been  lying  in  the  sun  all 
day.  And  this  mingled  fragrance,  so  deliciously  of  the 
earth  earthy,  seemed  just  the  perfume  that  would  be  shaken 
from  October's  russet  smock  as  he  strode  across  the  land. 

Sophy  stood  up  at  last.  She  lifted  her  arms  in  a  boyish 
stretch,  and  stamped  her  feet  which  had  "pins  and 
needles"  in  them  from  crouching  so  long.  Her  big, 
clubbed  plait  had  been  somewhat  loosened  by  her  vigorous 
pounding.  Leaves  and  withered  grasses  clung  to  her  short, 
cord  skirt.  As  she  stood  there  stretching  her  cramped 
limbs,  and  laughing  nervously  as  her  feet  "woke  up" 
again,  with  the  light  wind  frowzing  the  loose  strands  of 
hair  about  her  face,  and  her  short  skirt  disclosing  her 
ankles  in  their  tight-laced,  brown  shooting-boots,  she  cer 
tainly  looked  quite  young  enough,  and  girlish  enough,  to  be 
Loring 's  sweetheart  rather  than  Bobby's  mother. 

And  Loring  was  thinking  vehemently,  his  hands  clenched 
on  the  chestnuts  in  his  pockets: 

"She's  got  to  love  me  ...  I'll  make  her  love  me  .  .  . 
I'll  make  her  marry  me  ...  I  will  ...  I  will!" 

"Ouf !"  said  Sophy,  letting  her  arms  drop.  "That  was 
delicious !  And  what  are  you  so  fiercely  determined  over  ? 
You  look  .  .  .  but  I  won't  say  what  you  look  like — 

"No  .  .  .  don't,  please,"  replied  Loring  shortly. 

He  turned  away  to  help  Rosa  adjust  the  top  of  her 
hamper,  which  would  not  fit  into  place  over  the  hard, 
round  chestnuts. 

It  was  beautifully  still.  The  western  sky  was  beginning 
to  redden.  A  crisp  rustling  came  from  the  shocks  of  In 
dian  corn  in  a  near  field. 

"It  must  be  after  five  .  .  .  time  for  my  Bobbikins  to 
be  trotting  home,"  said  Sophy,  taking  his  sober  face  be 
tween  her  hands  and  crumpling  it  together  like  a  soft 


292  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

flower.  Then  she  laughed  and  kissed  the  crumpled  flower 
of  the  little  face. 

"Ho-o-o-g!  Ho-o-o-g!"  came  the  long-drawn,  minor 
wail  of  a  negro-voice  calling  the  swine  from  the  mountain 
for  their  evening  feed. 

Rosa  went  off  down  the  hill,  with  Bobby  trotting  at  her 
side.  Once  the  little  fellow  looked  back — only  once.  His 
dignity  forbade  that  he  should  be  thought  regretful.  And 
"Muvvah"  had  promised  to  come  and  roast  chestnuts  for 
him  before  his  bedtime.  t .. 

' '  Nowr  for  a  brisk  walk ! ' '  said  Sophy.  ' '  Let 's  strike  into 
the  woods  at  random  and  go  a  little  way  up  the  mountain 
— not  far — I  must  be  back  to  roast  those  chestnuts  before 
Bobby's  bedtime." 

"You  never  break  your  word  to  him,  do  you?"  said 
Loring,  as  they  plunged  into  the  golden  depths  that  seemed 
aglow  with  stored  sunlight. 

"No.  Never.  I'd  rather  break  my  word  to  ten  grown 
ups  than  to  one  child." 

They  went  on  in  silence  for  some  yards,  the  dried  leaves 
ruffling  almost  to  their  knees  in  places.  Then  Loring  said : 

"If  you  once  gave  your  word  you  wouldn't  break  it  to 
child  or  grown-up." 

"I  don't  know.  ...  I've  never  been  tested." 

"I  know." 

' '  Thanks.  But  you  shouldn  't  get  into  the  habit  of  ideal 
ising  people.  You'll  end  as  a  cynic  if  you  do." 

Her  tone  was  pleasantly  mocking. 

Loring  said  quietly : 

"I've  never  idealised  but  one  person  in  my  life." 

"Well  .  .  .  perhaps  that's  being  a  little  too  cautious." 

"Caution  has  nothing  to  do  with  it.  Such  things  come 
Qr  they  don 't  come. ' ' 

' '  Yes  .  .  .  perhaps  they  do.  Ah !  Wild  grapes !  What 
beauties!" 

She  stood  gazing  up  at  the  little  clusters  of  purple-black 
fox-grapes  that  hung  against  the  arch  of  yellow  leaves 
overhead.  The  vine  had  swung  itself  in  great  loops  about 
a  dogwood  tree.  The  grapes  were  like  a  delicate  design  of 
wrought  iron  work  against  the  gilded  background  of 
autumn  leaves.  But  they  hung  high — out  of  reach.  Lor 
ing  caught  at  them  with  the  handle  of  his  riding-crop. 
Some  of  the  ripe,  purplish  beads  pattered  about  them. 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  293 

' '  No — no !  You  can 't  get  them  that  way, ' '  said  Sophy. 
"They're  too  ripe." 

''Wait  ...  I'll  have  a  go  for  them  this  way,"  said 
Loring. 

He  grasped  a  bough  of  the  tree  in  either  hand,  shook  it 
to  assure  himself  that  it  was  equal  to  his  weight,  then 
swung  himself  up  into  its  crotch.  By  standing  with  an 
arm  about  the  main  stem,  he  could  reach  the  bunches  easily 
on  either  side.  Sophy  held  out  the  lap  of  her  skirt. 

"You  are  a  nice  playmate!"  she  called  up  to  him, 
smiling. 

He  tossed  down  bunch  after  bunch  from  where  he  stood. 
Then,  seating  himself  sideways  on  one  of  the  larger  boughs, 
gathered  all  that  were  within  reach.  His  bare  head,  with 
its  clustered,  red-brown  hair,  looked  quite  wonderful  in 
the  setting  of  golden  leaves  and  iron-blue  grapes. 

"Forgive  me  ..."  said  Sophy.  "But  I  must  tell  you 
.  .  .  You  look  like  the  young  Dionysus — with  those 
bunches  of  grapes  hanging  all  about  you." 

"Well,  that's  odd,"  said  Loring;  "but  from  here  you 
look  to  me  like  Ariadne."  He  thanked  the  gods  that  he 
had  not  forgotten  all  his  mythology.  "I  ask  nothing  bet 
ter  than  to  give  you  a  crown  of  stars.  I  believe  that's 
what  Dionysus  gave  Ariadne  .  .  .  when  she  became  his 
wife." 

Sophy  laughed. 

"You  dear  boy,"  said  she.  "That  was  very  quick  of 
you.  And  I  like  you  for  conquering  your  evil  temper  so 
nicely.  You  never  had  a  sister,  had  you?" 

"Why?  Are  you  thinking  of  offering  to  be  a  sister 
to  me?" 

"Not  at  all.  I  was  only  thinking  that  you  wouldn't  be 
so  'techess,'  as  the  darkies  say,  if  you'd  had  a  nice,  blunt 
sister  to  tease  you  when  you  were  young — that  is,  younger 
than  you  are  now, ' '  she  ended  cruelly. 

Loring  swung  himself  down  beside  her. 

"The  atrocious  crime  of  being  a  young  man!"  he  said, 
looking  into  her  eyes  boldly  and  somewhat  mockingly,  in 
his  turn.  ' '  It  seems  hard  for  you  to  forgive  me  that. ' ' 

Sophy  was  a  trifle  disconcerted. 

"You  are  so  easy  to  tease  ...  it's  a  temptation,"  she 
said  rather  lamely. 

Loring  replied  with  apparent  irrelevance. 


294  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

"I  believe  the  Brownings  are  the  accepted  standard  of 
married  bliss,  aren't  they?" 

"Why — yes — I  believe  they  are,"  admitted  Sophy. 

"Very  well.  And  do  you  happen  to  remember  that 
Elizabeth  Barrett  was  some  years  older  than  Robert 
Browning  ? ' ' 

Sophy  was  annoyed  to  feel  herself  colouring. 

"Yes,  I  know  that,"  she  said  coldly. 

Loring  kept  his  eyes  on  her.  She  was  eating  the  little 
fox  flavoured  grapes  as  she  walked  beside  him — very  de 
liberately,  one  at  a  time. 

"What  I  find  so  peculiarly  interesting  about  it,"  con 
tinued  Loring,  his  voice  shaken,  his  heart  racing,  "is  that 
the  difference  in  their  ages  was  even  more  than  the  differ 
ence  in  ours." 

Sophy  threw  aside  the  bunch  of  grapes  with  an  impetu 
ous  movement.  She  turned,  looking  him  full  in  the  face. 
She  was  very  pale  now  and  her  eyes  shone  black.  She  had 
not  foreseen  any  such  sudden  climax  as  all  this. 

"Don't  .  .  .  don't  spoil  it  .  .  ."  she  said  vehemently, 
"don't  spoil  our  pleasant  friendship.  ...  I  beg  of  you  not 
to  do  it.  .  .  ." 

They  stood  facing  each  other,  shut  alone  into  the  great 
gold  temple  of  the  woods.  Loring 's  beautiful  bold  eyes 
were  black  also.  He,  too,  was  white.  The  pent  up  passion 
of  his  worshipping  love  for  her,  that  had  all  the  unreason 
ing  fire  of  a  convert's  fanaticism,  burnt  his  lips  with  words. 
He  had  not  meant  to  speak.  Five  minutes  ago  nothing 
had  been  further  from  his  thoughts  than  the  outburst, 
which  now  shook  him  with  its  violent  suddenness. 

"You  can't  stem  the  high  tide  with  a  straw  .  .  ."  he 
said  low  and  breathless.  "Do  what  you  will  with  me  ... 
I  love  you  ...  I  more  than  love  you  ...  I  worship  you 
...  I  adore  you.  .  .  .  Break  me  if  you  like.  .  .  .  Snap' 
my  life  in  two.  .  .  .  Throw  away  the  broken  bits.  .  .  . 
But  I  worship  you  ...  I  worship  you!" 

He  dropped  suddenly  to  his  knee  on  the  brown  leaves; 
caught  the  hem  of  her  clay-stained  skirt  to  his  lips.  He 
was  past  all  self-consciousness.  He  had  no  dread  of  seem 
ing  ridiculous.  Indeed  it  did  not  occur  to  him  that  he 
could  be  ridiculous.  Young  love  has  no  sense  of  humour. 
His  white,  intense  face  looked  up  at  her  amazingly  beauti 
ful — the  face  of  a  wood-god  kindled  with  awed  passion  for 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  295 

some  skyey  deity.  And  this  sheer  beauty  of  his  kept  Sophy 
also  from  seeing  anything  absurd  in  his  kneeling  there  to 
kiss  the  soiled  hem  of  her  skirt.  Supreme  beauty,  like 
supreme  love,  is  never  ridiculous.  The  gods  wept  over 
Icarus  tumbling  from  his  sire's  chariot  in  mid-heaven. 
They  would  have  tittered  had  it  been  lame  Vulcan  sprawl 
ing  after  his  whirling  hammer  through  the  gulfs  of  ether. 
In  the  few  seconds  that  Sophy  stood  transfixed,  gazing 
down  into  that  exalted  young  face,  she  understood  how  the 
legend  of  the  moon's  white  stoop  to  Endymion  had  been 
invented.  Not  imagination  so  much  as  material  beauty  had 
been  the  source  of  the  Greek  myths.  The  artist  and  the 
poet  in  her  ranged  themselves  on  Loring's  side.  Her  first 
impulse  of  anger  was  replaced  by  a  sad  tenderness.  She 
forgot  the  Morris  Loring  of  everyday  in  this  Endymion 
of  a  moment.  She  forgot  even  that  she  had  called  him  like 
Endymion  "in  the  sulks"  only  a  short  while  ago.  This 
youth,  with  the  white  flame  of  worship  quivering  up  from 
his  heart's  altar  and  lighting  the  antique  mask  of  his  ar 
dent  face — with  his  awed,  yet  eager  eyes  burning  upon 
hers — this  was  a  different  thing — one  quite  new  to  her. 
She  was  startled  by  the  throe  of  pitiful  regret  that  seized 
her.  If  only  she  had  been  different  herself  ...  a  young 
virgin  ready  to  receive  this  outpouring  of  virginal  love. 
.  .  .  What  miracles  would  have  enfolded  them  .  .  .  what 
wonders  of  dawn-time  ecstasy.  She  had  been  mistaken. 
A  face  so  beautiful  could  be  only  the  symbol  of  a  lovely 
soul.  And  this  soul  was  gazing  at  her  from  the  timid 
passion  of  the  dark  eyes,  no  longer  bold,  but  infinitely, 
touchingly  imploring.  In  continuous,  swift  flashes,  like  the 
luminous  particles  from  radium,  these  thoughts  showered 
from  her  mind,  as  she  stood  gazing  down  at  him. 

"I've  heard  of  it  ...  I  never  believed.  .  .  .  Now  I  be 
lieve  .  .  . "  he  was  stammering.  ' '  My  soul 's  in  your  body. 
.  .  .  Your  beautiful  body  is  more  than  any  soul  to  me.  .  .  . 
I  pray  to  you.  .  .  .  My  soul  in  you  prays  to  you.  .  .  .*' 
He  caught  up  a  bit  of  leafy  clay  that  had  adhered  to  her 
foot,  and  pressed  that  also  to  his  lips.  "See  .  .  ."  he 
stammered  on,  "the  dirt  from  your  shoe  .  .  .  That's  how 
I  love  you.  ..." 

And  even  this  act  did  not  make  him  seem  ridiculous. 
But  Sophy  caught  his  wrist,  holding  back  his  hand  from 
his  lips  that  trembled  into  a  white,  half-smile. 


296  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

"My  dear  ..."  she  said,  her  own  voice  shaken.  "My 
dear  boy  .  .  .  Please  ..." 

She  felt  her  words  very  stupid — inane. 

"Come  ..."  she  said,  pulling  at  the  strong  wrist  to 
make  him  regain  his  feet.  He  yielded  to  her  touch  and 
rose,  standing  tall  and  quivering  before  her. 

"Won't  you  even  let  me  worship  you?"  he  asked  in  a 
smothered  voice. 

"My  dear,  no  ...  be  reasonable  ..." 

It  seemed  to  Sophy  that  she  had  never  been  at  the  mercy 
of  such  banalities  as  her  mind  now  offered. 

He  stared,  his  lip  curling. 

"Reasonable!" 

"I  mean  ..."  Fitting  words  would  not  come  to  her. 
"You  forget  ..."  she  said  confusedly. 

"What  .  .  .  what  do  I  forget?" 

"My  life  .  .  .  what  is  past.  .  .  .  My  life  is  over  .  .  . 
that  part  of  life  ..." 

"Your  life?  .  .  .  Over?  ..."  He  gazed  at  her  so  that 
her  eyes  wavered  from  his.  She  could  not  help  this.  It 
distressed  her  to  be  standing  there  before  him  in  her  short 
skirt,  bare-headed,  with  eyes  that  would  not  keep  steady. 
She  felt  that  he  had  the  advantage  of  her  out  there  in 
those  wide,  still  aisles  of  gold  with  their  groining  of  dark 
branches.  It  was  as  if  he  had  her  far  from  home,  in  his 
own  haunts.  The  glowing  forest  sustained  him,  gave  him 
his  natural  setting.  He  stood  there  facing  her,  the  young 
wood-god  in  his  own  domain.  She  felt  a  droll  almost 
hysteric  yearning  for  trailing  skirts,  and  the  dignified 
refuge  of  an  armchair.  That  absurdly  girlish  bow  of  black 
ribbon  seemed  to  burn  her  neck.  She  knew  that  she  looked 
incongruously  young  for  the  soul  that  inhabited  her.  She 
made  a  desperate  grasp  at  dignity  of  voice.  Her  cold  tone 
should  be  her  trailing  garment — make  him  realise  the  dis 
tance  that  was  spiritually  between  them.  When  she  spoke 
it  was  in  a  steady  voice. 

"My  life — as  regards  love — is  over,  because  I  have  come 
to  a  place  in  it  where  I  do  not  even  wish  love,"  she  said 
icily.  A  banal  quotation  slipped  from  her  before  she  could 
stop  it.  "  'Ich  habe  geliebt  und  geleben,'  "  she  said, 
vexed  at  the  crass  ordinariness  of  the  words  as  they  struck 
her  ear. 

There  was  silence.    A  squirrel  dropped  a  nut  through  the 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  297 

still,  flaky  gold  of  lapping  leaves — then  chittered  angrily 
at  its  own  awkwardness. 

Loring  said  at  last  in  a  strangled  voice : 

"I  am.  jealous  of  that  dead  man." 

Sophy  whitened. 

"Don't  say  such  things  to  me,"  burst  from  her  in  a 
sharp  whisper. 

"Have  I  hurt  you?"  he  whispered  back.  "I'd  die  for 
you  .  .  .  have  I  hurt  you?  Did  you  love  him  so  much  as 
that  ?  Are  you  really  dead  .  .  .  with  him  ? ' ' 

"Yes." 

Another  silence.  Then  the  wilful,  passionate  young 
voice  broke  out  again: 

' '  No !  you  are  not  dead  .  .  .  you  are  not  dead !  You 
are  only  sleeping.  ..." 

Sophy  started  as  though  from  a  sort  of  sleep. 

"We  must  go,"  she  said.     "I'd  forgotten  ..." 

She  turned  and  began  walking  rapidly  away  from  him. 

He  caught  her  up  in  a  stride. 

"You  break  my  life  like  a  rotten  twig,"  he  said.  "And 
go  to  roast  chestnuts  for  your  son. ' ' 

The  anguish  of  bitterness  in  his  voice  kept  his  words 
from  absurdity. 

"Don't  say  such  things  .  .  .  don't  say  such  things," 
Sophy  murmured,  walking  faster  and  faster.  He  kept 
beside  her,  implacable  in  the  smarting  novelty  of  defeated 
love  and  will. 

"Your  face  is  so  beautiful  and  gentle.  .  .  .  Who  would 
have  thought  you  could  be  so  hard  .  .  .  like  flint  ? ' ' 

"I  am  not  hard  ...  I  only  tell  you  the  bare  truth  to 
save  you  pain." 

"You  can't  save  me  pain.  Why  do  you  throw  me  these 
mouldy  crusts  of  old  sayings  ?  I  offer  you  the  best  of  me. 
.  .  .  Don't  you  even  think  me  worth  a  word  out  of  your 
heart?" 

Sophy  paused.     Her  heart  gushed  pity — and  regret. 

"Oh,  my  dear  ..."  she  said  lamentably,  looking  up  at 
him  with  frank  pain.  "Why  do  you  want  to  make  it  so 
hard  for  us  both?" 

"Then  ...  it  is  hard  ...  a  little  .  .  .  for  you,  too? 
I  mean  ...  it  hurts  you  to  hurt  me  so  ?  " 

"Yes,  yes,  it  hurts  me!  Do  you  think  I  am  made  of 
stone?  Do  you  think  I  like  seeing  you  suffer?" 


298  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

"Then  ..."  his  throat  closed  on  the  words  he  wanted 
to  say.  He  was  ignominiously  near  to  tears.  Chokily  he 
got  it  out : 

"Then  .  .  .  don't  send  me  away  .  .  .  just  because  .  .  . 
I  love  you.  Let  me  stay  near  you.  ...  It  can't  hurt  you 
.  .  .  and  it's  life  to  me." 

"No,  no.  That  would  be  horribly  wrong  of  me — utterly, 
hatefully  selfish." 

He  caught  at  this. 

"You'd  like  to  have  me?  You've  called  me  a  good 
'playmate,'  you  know.  I  won't  bore  you  with — with" — he 
gulped — "this  craziness  of  mine.  ...  If  I'm  'good'  .  .  . 
you'll  let  me  stay  on?" 

"Oh,  it's  all  wrong!  It's  all  wrong,  my  dear!"  said 
Sophy,  quite  desperately.  "You  should  go  away  at  once. 
This  is  all  just  a  phase  .  .  .  just  a  passing  ..." 

"Please,"  said  Loring,  with  real  dignity. 

Sophy  felt  very  unhappy.  She  knew  that  she  was  doing 
wrong  to  temporise.  Yet  that  cruel  kindness  of  the  tender 
hearted  made  her  hesitate.  She  could  not  bear  to  banish 
him  all  at  once  in  this  harsh  way. 

"Well  .  .  .  for  a  little  while  ..."  she  murmured 
weakly.  ' '  But  it  would  be  much  better  for  you  to  .  .  . " 

"Please,"  said  Loring  again.  "Allow  me  to  judge  of 
what  will  be  best  for  me." 

"I  ought  not  to,"  she  said  miserably.  The  whole  scene 
had  unnerved  her — jarred  the  fine,  secure  monotony  of  the 
life  that  she  had  thought  so  firmly  established.  One  cannot 
stand  face  to  face  with  genuine  love  without  feeling  a 
stir  in  chords  long  dumb.  Loring 's  young,  idealising  pas 
sion  had  set  certain  strings  in  Sophy's  nature  vibrating. 
It  gave  her  that  sensation  of  aching  melancholy  with  which 
we  listen  to  the  faint  notes  of  an  old  piano  that  was  rich 
and  mellow  in  our  youth.  It  made  her  feel  very  lonely. 
She  had  not  once  felt  lonely  since  coming  home — not  once 
in  these  calmly  joyous  years  of  mental  renewal.  Restless 
ness  she  had  known  of  late,  but  never  loneliness.  Now  she 
felt  all  drooping  with  the  solitude  of  her  own  spirit  as  she 
walked  homeward  beside  Loring.  The  soft,  dun  red  of  the 
autumn  sky  seemed  to  her  like  the  quiet,  sombre  glow  of 
her  own  life  that  had  no  more  flame  to  give  forth,  that 
had  sunk  into  steady  embers,  that  would  presently  resolve 
itself  into  the  white  ash  of  old  age.  Yet  it  was  wonderful 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  299 

to  be  loved  again — even  though  she  had  no  love  to  give  in 
return.  It  was  movingly  wonderful — though  awful  in  a 
way — to  feel  this  tonic  answering  of  slack  chords  to  the 
full,  resonant  notes  struck  from  the  blazing  lyre  of 
youth.  .  .  . 


VI 

LORING  had  said  that  he  would  be  "good"  if  Sophy  did  not 
banish  him  altogether,  and  he  was,  very  "good."  It  was 
the  goodness  of  a  spoilt  child  that  swallows  physic  for  the 
spoonful  of  jam  to  follow.  The  jam  in  Loring's  case  was 
represented  by  the  hours  that  he  was  allowed  in  Sophy's 
presence.  He  had  not  known  himself  capable  of  such  self- 
control.  Altogether,  his  love  for  Sophy  had  revealed  to 
him  as  it  were  another  man  cased  within  the  man  that  he 
had  heretofore  thought  was  himself.  This  new  man  was  of 
more  sensitive  stuff,  finer  and  yet  much  stronger  than  the 
other  man  had  been.  It  was  something  like  having  a  sixth 
sense  bestowed  on  him — this  new  appetency  for  all  manner 
of  things  towards  which  until  now  he  had  only  felt  a 
vague  indifference.  His  life,  since  college  days,  had  been 
made  up  of  sport,  occasional  spurts  of  travel  in  wild  places, 
girls — to  a  moderate  degree — the  usual  convivial,  surface 
intercourse  with  other  young  bloods — some  ennui,  gener 
ally  dispelled  by  drink  (the  average  young  American's 
ordinary  indulgence  in  "high-balls"  as  a  panacea  for 
tedium). 

Loring  had  an  excellent,  but  lazy,  mind.  At  Harvard  he 
had  read  law.  Once  out  of  college,  he  had  dropped  it 
promptly.  He  had  inherited  fifteen  millions  at  his  father 's 
death,  when  he  was  only  twenty-one.  What  was  the  use 
of  moiling  away  at  law?  The  property  was  looked  after 
already  by  a  firm  of  the  most  distinguished  lawyers  in 
New  York.  He  could  see  no  "sense"  in  racking  his  brain 
with  work  that  bored  him  when  this  work  was  absolutely 
without  necessity.  So  he  had  spun  in  gay  peripheral 
circles  with  the  wheel  of  life — until  meeting  Sophy.  Now 
she  had  drawn  him  to  its  centre.  It  was  strange  how  his 
consciousness,  thus  centrifugally  established,  seemed  an 
other  consciousness.  Only  the  present  was.  real — this  radi 
ant  and  somewhat  awful  present  in  which  he  loved  Sophy 


300  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

as  he  had  not  believed  that  human  beings  could  love.  His 
past  seemed  like  a  dull,  cheap  volume  of  gaudy  colour- 
prints.  He  could  not  realise  that  he  had  moved  through 
those  vulgar  pictures  of  the  past.  This  Morris  Loring,  he 
felt,  had  not  been  part  of  them.  He  flared  hot  with  shame, 
merely  in  glancing  back  at  them.  Yet  his  life  had  not 
been  really  shameful — in  the  grossest  meaning  of  the  word. 
Some  sensual  pleasure  he  had  taken,  not  much.  In  the 
odiously  smug  phrase  with  which  his  native  literature  was 
given  to  describing  virtuous  youth,  he  was  rather  by  way 
of  being  a  "clean-limbed,  clean-minded  young  American." 
But  the  pig  of  St.  Anthony  has  a  trick  of  running  between 
the  limbs  of  youth,  no  matter  how  cleanly — indeed,  he 
seems  to  take  an  evil  joy  in  tripping  the  cleanliest,  if  only 
once.  It  wTas  these  chance  tumbles  into  the  mire  that 
scalded  Loring 's  heart  with  shame,  as  he  knelt  now  at  the 
white  shrine  of  his  lady.  lie  would  have  liked  to  have  a 
new  body  as  well  as  a  new  soul  to  love  her  with.  For  the 
will  in  him  had  not  really  submitted  to  her  will.  It  was 
only  bent  to  this  momentary  obedience,  like  a  strong  spring 
ready  to  act  at  the  least  touch.  Love  made  him  as  wary 
and  as  cunning  as  a  fox  in  springtime.  Not  for  one  mo 
ment  did  he  relinquish  his  determination  to  win  her  ulti 
mately.  In  the  meantime,  he  was  "good."  That  is,  he 
did  not  vex  her  by  hinting  at  his  love. 

All  his  energies  were  concentrated  on  becoming  such  "a 
playmate"  as  she  would  miss  if  taken  from  her.  He  was 
like  Jacob  serving  for  Rachel.  This  new  life  that  had 
sprung  up  in  him  seemed  to  have  the  indomitable  patience 
of  spiders.  And  without  tiring,  ceaselessly,  exhaustlessly, 
he  spun  about  her  the  fine  web  of  pleasant  habit — a  mesh 
of  delicate,  trivial  customs,  fine  as  the  silken  band  that 
bound  Fenris,  and  that  would  be  as  hard  to  break  should 
the  time  come  when  she  wished  to  break  it. 

His  family  and  friends  thought,  of  course,  that  he  was 
merely  staying  on  for  the  Virginia  hunting  season.  It 
seemed  reasonable  enough.  The  "Eldon  Hounds" — Mac- 
f arlane  's  pack — were  well  known  in  the  North ;  but  the 
Hunt  was  not  fashionable.  Most  Northern  sportsmen  went 
to  Loudoun  county.  There  was  too  much  wire  in  this  part 
of  Albemarle.  Even  Macfarlane  threatened  to  leave  if 
something  could  not  be  done  about  the  wire.  So. Loring  set 
to  work  in  the  matter.  He  became  very  popular  in  the 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  301 

county.  This  rather  bored  him,  but  he  must  seem  to  re 
main  for  the  hunting.  He  did  not  choose  that  there  should 
be  gossip.  He  was  very  careful  about  his  visits  to  Sweet- 
Waters.  Even  the  Macfarlanes  did  not  know  how  often 
he  went  there. 

As  for  Sophy,  after  the  first  qualms  of  conscience  had 
passed,  and  she  saw  how  easily  Loring  slipped  back  again 
into  the  old,  pleasant  intercourse,  she  was  delighted  to 
have  him  stay  on.  He  had  a  great  charm  for  her,  the 
charm  of  sheer  beauty  and  a  certain  winsomeness  that  even 
Charlotte  was  beginning  to  yield  to. 

For  this  strange  baptism  of  white  fire  changed  Loring 
in  all  respects.  His  egotism  shrivelled  under  it.  He 
glowed  with  fellow  kindliness  towards  every  one.  The 
homely,  simple  life  of  the  Macons  became  full  of  enchant 
ment  to  him.  He  did  all  sorts  of  little  odd  jobs  for  Char 
lotte,  such  as  riding  three  miles  out  of  his  way  to  post  a 
forgotten  letter,  or  nailing  hinges  on  the  pigeon-house 
door,  when  there  was  no  carpenter  to  be  had  for  days. 

Winks  thought  him  a  delightful  person.  He  had  the 
most  glorious  rides  around  the  lawn,  on  Loring 's  hunters, 
every  time  that  he  came  to  Sweet- Waters.  Even  Bobby 
grew  a  little  more  tolerant.  He,  too,  enjoyed  these  ambles 
on  the  big,  shining  beasts,  that  rattled  their  nostrils  with 
high  spirits,  and  stepped  mincing  sideways,  as  Loring 
walked  at  the  bridle-rein.  The  boys  straddled  proudly, 
their  small  legs  jutting  wide  apart,  on  the  huge  slanting 
shoulders  of  "Omicron"  or  "Proud  Aleck." 

Loring  begged  Sophy  to  try  the  splendid  red  hunter 
that  he  had  bought  from  Macfarlane. 

So  she  followed  the  hounds  on  Proud  Aleck,  and  if  Lor 
ing  had  adored  her  before,  he  could  scarcely  keep  his  love 
in  hand  when  he  saw  her  riding  so  gallantly  at  the  tricky 
snake-fences,  mounted  on  the  glittering  blood-red  horse. 

And,  when  the  run  was  over,  came  the  homeward  ride 
with  her,  across  twilit  pasture  lands  and  fallow.  They 
would  select  low  gaps  in  the  fences — then  over,  side  by 
side,  like  birds.  There  would  be  the  reek  of  ploughed 
earth  and  wood  smoke  in  their  nostrils.  Sometimes  a 
rabbit  would  leap  up  under  the  horses'  feet,  making  them 
swerve,  snorting.  They  would  see  the  little  white,  fluffy 
scut  go  zigzagging  through  the  yellow  broom-sedge. 

As  winter  drew  on,  and  they  became  more  intimate,  she 


302 

read  him  some  bits  of  her  childish  scribblings  that  she  had 
discovered,  put  away  by  her  mother  in  an  old  chest.  They 
made  deliciously  funny  reading  in  the  firelit  hours  of 
tea-time.  One  line  from  a  long,  sprawling  tragedy  in 
blank  verse  came  to  be  a  saying  with  Loring: 

"  'As  well  to  rob  a  comet  of  its  tail 
To  make  the  moon  a  wig ]'  " 

he  used  to  quote  dramatically,  when  anything  seemed  im 
practicable.  He  was  a  dear  playmate!  Sophy  became 
very  fond  of  him  indeed.  And  Loring,  for  his  part,  loved 
every  member  of  the  household,  especially  Judge  Macon. 
There  was  such  a  taking  contrast  between  the  genial  hu 
mour  of  the  man  and  his  gaunt,  lean  figure  with  its  dark, 
rather  tragic-looking  face,  that  reminded  him  of  the  photo 
graphs  of  Edwin  Booth  as  "Hamlet."  Yes,  he  certainly 
looked  like  a  world-worn,  weary  Hamlet  who  had  recov 
ered  with  only  a  slight  lameness  from  Laertes's  sword- 
thrust.  The  Judge  limped  a  little  from  a  bullet  in  his 
knee.  He  had  fought  in  the  Southern  army  when  a  lad  of 
sixteen.  Loring,  as  he  watched  the  Judge  limping  about 
the  house,  mused  sometimes  on  what  life  must  have  been 
like  in  Virginia  when  boys  of  sixteen  had  gone  to  war. 

The  Judge,  on  his  side,  returned  Loring 's  liking  in  full. 
He  quite  exasperated  Charlotte  by  what  she  called  his 
"real  weakness"  for  the  young  man. 

"Yes,  I've  got  a  mighty  soft  spot  for  this  Yankee  boy," 
he  would  admit.  Then  he  would  chuckle  wickedly.  "But 
it's  nothing  to  Sophy's,"  he  would  add;  "only  she  don't 
know  it." 

Charlotte's  more  kindly  feeling  towards  Loring  did  not 
keep  her  from  being  quite  miserable  over  such  possibilities. 
She  thought  them  only  too  likely.  She  could  foresee  noth 
ing  but  unhappiness  for  Sophy  in  such  a  marriage.  Yet 
she  was  helpless.  Sophy  was  not  the  sort  of  person  that 
one  could  "guide."  There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to 
leave  her  in  God's  hands,  as  the  Judge  had  once  suggested. 
Charlotte  was  truly  religious.  Yet  it  is  strange  how  hard 
it  is  for  the  truly  religious  to  "leave  things  in  God's 
hands."  "Putting  parcels  in  the  Heavenly  post-office, 
and  jerking  at  them  by  the  string  of  prayer,"  the  Judge 
called  it. 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  303 

Towards  the  end  of  November  Loring's  mother  fell  ill. 
He  was  telegraphed  for.  He  was  very  fond  of  his  mother, 
but  the  old  egotism  surged  up  in  him  when  he  read  that 
she  was  not  in  danger,  only  suffering.  He  could  not  ease 
her  suffering.  That  was  the  affair  of  doctors  and  trained 
nurses.  However,  he  left  for  New  York  at  once. 


VII 

LORING  was  not  able  to  return  to  Virginia  until  the  middle 
of  January.  He  arrived  at  the  Macfarlanes'  late  in  the 
afternoon,  and  as  soon  as  supper  was  over  had  Proud 
Aleck  saddled  and  rode  to  Sweet-Waters. 

The  night  was  wild  with  wind,  but  very  clear.  A  newly 
risen  moon  tilted  above  the  eastern  woodlands.  The  wind 
played  madcap  games — now  leaping  high  into  the  heavens, 
now  rushing  low  along  the  earth.  The  great  half-moon 
just  skimming  the  dark  reach  of  forest  was  like  a  silver 
sail  bellying  in  the  flaw. 

Loring  exulted  to  feel  the  bay's  withers  once  more  be 
tween  his  knees,  and  the  free  countryside  about  him.  He 
rode  at  a  clipping  trot,  then  galloped ;  then  gave  the  horse 
his  head  up  a  long  hill.  Proud  Aleck,  excited  by  the  gusty 
wind,  sped  like  a  racer  over  the  bone-white  winter  grasses. 
They  faced  the  blast  gloriously.  The  warm  reek  of  the 
flying  horse  blew  back  in  Loring's  face.  He  felt  the  great 
body  plying  nobly  against  his  legs.  Now  they  swept  down 
ward,  jumped  a  brook,  leaped  into  fallow.  The  huge  horse 
seemed  bounding  over  a  floor  of  dark-red  cloud,  so  easily  he 
took  the  ploughland  of  spongy  clay,  so  noiselessly  his 
hoofs  went  over  it.  Now  they  breasted  another  hill.  This 
was  living!  To  ride  with  the  winter  wind  through  the 
cold  flame  of  moonlight  to  the  glowing  hearth  of  his 
Lady!  .  .  . 

Would  she  be  alone,  he  wondered — in  her  own  study? 
...  Or  would  she  be  sitting  with  her  sister  and  the  Judge 
in  the  general  living  room?  .  .  .  He  cantered  across  the 
lawn.  Ah — there  was  a  flicker  of  firelight  from  her  study 
window!  .  .  .  Perhaps  she  was  there.  Perhaps  he  would 
have  the  joy  of  seeing  her  alone,  this  first  moment  after 
those  interminable  six  weeks.  , 


304  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

Mammy  Nan  told  him  that  she  opened  "de  do'  "  for 
him,  "  'caze  Miss  Cha'lt  an'  dee  Jedge  done  step  over  tuh 
dee  Univussity,  an'  I'se  sleepin'  in  dee  house  tuh  keep 
keer  uv  Miss  Sophy. ' ' 

Miss  Sophy  was  "in  her  steddy, "  Mammy  Nan  further 
informed  him.  She  "sut'ny  wuz  glad  he  done  come  tuh 
cheer  Miss  Sophy  up  some.  'Feared  like,  to  Mammy  Nan, 
that  she'd  ben  a-mopin'  ever  sence  Miss  Cha'lt  an'  dee 
Jedge  tuck  an'  lef  her  behine. " 

Loring  found  Sophy  sitting  in  the  firelight,  gazing  at 
the  big  logs  of  hickory,  and  smoothing  her  collie's  head  as 
it  rested  against  her  knee.  The  room  was  large  but  cosy. 
It  had  old-fashioned  curtains  of  dark-red  worsted  gros- 
grain  at  the  windows.  Little  green  "steps"  set  between 
them  held  pots  of  flowers.  There  was  all  through  the  room 
a  sweet  scent  of  rose-geranium,  lemon  verbena,  and  the 
clean,  fresh  fragrance  of  new-cut  logs.  It  was  the  perfume 
that  he  associated  with  her.  He  stood  near  the  door  after 
entering,  breathing  deep  of  this  pleasant,  candid  scent,  and 
drinking  her  with  his  eyes. 

She  looked  up,  startled.  And  he  shook  inwardly  with 
the  soft  firelit  beauty  of  her  face.  She  was  wearing  a 
gown  that  he  loved — an  old  gown  of  olive  velveteen 
trimmed  with  narrow  bands  of  fur.  It  was  made  like  the 
gown  in  a  picture,  quite  straight  from  throat  to  shoe-tip. 
The  long,  wide  sleeves  opened  from  the  shoulder.  They 
hid  her  arms  usually ;  but  when  she  reached  for  some 
thing,  her  lovely,  slender  arms  gleamed  between  the  soft 
bands  of  fur.  Behind  her,  on  her  writing-table,  was  an 
old  Algerian  water-bottle  of  dull  copper,  and  in  it  a 
branch  of  magnolia.  The  scarlet  seed-cones  gleamed  like 
gems  or  coals  of  fire  among  the  glossy  black-green  foliage. 
Her  face  as  it  turned  to  him  against  this  background  of 
leaves  and  jewelled  seed-cones  was  something  for  a  lover 
to  remember  in  old  age.  .  .  .  He  got  a  desperate  grip  of 
himself  and  went  forward.  As  she  lifted  her  hand  to  his, 
the  wide  sleeve  parted,  as  he  had  known  that  it  would  do, 
and  the  amber-white  arm  shone  bare  for  his  worship.  .  .  . 
Without  speaking,  she  smiled  a  welcome,  but  the  firelight 
showed  him  tears  caught  on  her  under-lids.  Mammy  Nan 's 
surmise  was  correct.  Sophy  had  been  "moping"  a  little 
of  late.  When  Charlotte  and  the  Judge  had  left  for  some 
festivity  at  the  University  two  days  ago,  her  mood  had 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  305 

been  quite  tranquil.  But  she  had  been  rather  overwork 
ing,  and  these  two  days,  all  alone  in  the  empty  house,  had 
set  her  brooding.  It  was  nearly  nine  o'clock.  The  wind 
thrummed  in  deep,  minor  chords  between  the  double  doors 
that  shut  her  study  from  the  greenhouse  in  the  wing.  A 
hound,  hunting  alone  by  moonlight,  bayed  from  the  dis 
tance.  Dhu  cocked  his  ears — the  supple  tips  hung  nicker 
ing  an  instant,  then  drooped  again.  The  collie  resumed 
his  wide,  gold-eyed,  tranced  stare  into  the  fire.  He,  too, 
seemed  overwhelmed  by  melancholy.  Sophy  drew  him  to 
her  at  last,  and  leaned  her  cheek  against  his  silky  black 
shoulder  which  smelt  like  warm,  clean  straw.  His  sire 
was  not  a  kennel  dog,  but  tended  sheep  in  the  Highlands. 
Now  when  Sophy  put  her  head  against  his  shoulder,  he 
leaned  down  his  head  on  hers  much  as  a  person  might  have 
done. 

With  her  arms  around  him  and  her  eyes  on  the  fire,  she 
listened  to  the  beating  of  his  heart.  The  warm,  red  mys 
tery  of  hearts — even  a  dog's  heart — awed  her.  What  was 
this  love  that  even  dogs  could  feel,  and  why  was  it  so 
immeasurably  sad?  The  feeling  of  desolation  grew  and 
grew.  .  .  .  She  was  so  horribly  lonely.  Even  the  close, 
simple  contact  with  her  collie  did  not  comfort  her.  This 
love  without  comprehension,  that  he  gave  her,  was  only 
another  sadness.  Nothing  lasted.  No  one  remained  the 
same.  There  was  Morris  Loring.  ...  At  least  he  had 
seemed  to  have  a  real  fondness  for  her,  after  he  had  con 
quered  his  first  boyish,  fantastic  frenzy.  Yet  already  he, 
too,  had  changed,  forgotten.  Just  a  nice,  beautiful  boy 
.  .  .  but  she  had  been  fond  of  him  also.  .  .  .  Now  he  had 
forgotten.  She  was  growing  old.  Youth  draws  youth. 
Naturally  he  would  forget  her. 

The  collie,  hearing  her  sigh,  got  down  from  his  chair 
and  leaned  his  head  against  her  knee  with  a  low  whine. 
She  sat  gazing  at  the  burning  logs  and  gently  stroking  the 
sleek,  black  head.  It  was  so  that  Loring  found  her  when 
he  entered. 

VIII 

HE  had  put  all  his  will  into  that  grip  upon  himself  when 
he  went  forward.  But  now  as  he  stood  looking  down  at 
her,  and  saw  the  tears  on  her  lashes,  his  heart  seemed  a 


306  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

white-hot  weight  that  dropped  him  to  his  knees  beside  her. 
He  did  not  dare  touch  her,  but  he  grasped  the  arms  of 
her  chair  with  both  hands,  his  vivid  young  face  close  to 
hers. 

"Oh,  my  Beautiful  .  .  ."  he  stammered.  "What  are 
you  crying  for?  Who  has  hurt  you?" 

It  was  amazingly  startling  to  have  this  impassioned 
young  Greek  rush  like  a  faun  out  of  the  winter  night  and 
hurl  himself  at  her  knees,  just  when  she  had  been  thinking 
of  him  as  forgetful  of  her  and  hundreds  of  miles  distant. 
She  managed  another  smile,  keeping  her  hand  on  Dhu's 
head.  The  collie  sat  stolidly  between  them,  pressing,  jeal 
ously,  closer  to  his  mistress. 

"No  one  has  hurt  me.  ...  It's  nothing.  .  .  .  Nothing 
but  foolishness  .  .  .  contemptible  foolishness.  ..." 

"You  were  lonely?" 

"I  was  just  silly.  .  .  .     Get  up,  dear  child." 

"I'm  not  a  'child.'  ...  I'm  a  man  who  loves  you. 
.  .  .  And  I  shall  not  get  up  ...  not  until  you  tell  me 
what  is  troubling  you.  ..." 

"Dear  Morris  ...  do  you  call  this  being  'good'?" 

"No.  I  call  it  being  what  I  can't  help  being.  .  .  .  Do 
you  think  I  can  see  tears  in  your  eyes  and  play  good  little 
Harry  ?  .  .  .  I  can 't  stand  your  tears.  .  .  .  They  make  me 
wild  .  .  .  quite  wild.  Don't  play  with  me.  .  .  .  Don't 
laugh.  ..." 

He  caught  her  hand  suddenly,  pressing  it  against  his 
breast. 

"Feel  that  .  .  ."  he  stammered.  "Can  you  laugh  at 
that?" 

The  violent  young  heart  drummed  against  her  hand 
pressed  down  upon  it  by  both  his. 

"It's  an  Idolater  .  .  ."  he  went  stammering  on,  his 
voice  low  and  thick  with  the  swift  heart-beats.  "Each 
throb  worships  you  .  .  .  And  you  tell  me  to  be  'good' 
.  .  .  You  tell  me  that!" 

The  dog  growled  suddenly.  It  was  a  low,  menacing 
rumble  deep  in  his  chest.  His  eyes  were  fixed  on  Sophy. 

"Be  quiet  ...  lie  down,  Dhu,"  she  said,  glad  for  an 
excuse  of  speaking  normally.  "Lie  down!"  she  repeated 
sharply,  as  the  dog  remained  motionless.  He  withdrew 
his  head  unwillingly  from  her  knee,  and  subsided  on  the 
rug  near  her  feet.  Now  his  gold  eyes  were  fixed  on  Lor- 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  307 

ing.  A  rim  of  milky  jade  showed  beneath  them.  There 
was  suspicion  and  cold  anger  in  their  gaze. 

Sophy  was  hemmed  in  by  those  quivering  arms  that  did 
not  touch  her,  but  whose  vibration  she  felt  through  the 
wood  of  the  old  chair.  Loring's  face  was  rapt  and  wild. 
He  was  "out  of  himself" — terribly  close  to  her  in  his 
fanatic  mystery  of  adoration. 

"Why  should  you  mind?"  his  words  came  racing 
breathlessly.  "What  I  offer  you  isn't  common  or  unclean. 
...  I  think  of  you  as  Catholics  think  of  Mary.  ..." 

"My  dear  ..."  whispered  Sophy.  He  hypnotised  her 
with  the  tremendous  intensity  of  his  emotion.  It  poured 
on  her  from  his  dark,  bold  eyes  that  had  a  wild  timidity 
even  in  their  boldness. 

The  same  inanity  of  mind  that  had  assailed  her  that  day 
in  the  October  woods,  under  his  first  outburst,  again  made 
her  feel  at  a  loss.  She  could  not  think  of  the  right  words 
to  say.  She  drew  back  as  far  as  she  could  from  him  in 
the  deep  chair.  Her  bosom  rose  and  fell  uncertainly. 
He  moved  her  ...  he  confused  her.  She  did  not  quite 
know  what  it  was  that  he  made  her  feel.  The  scent  of 
horse  and  leather  and  winter  fields  was  still  fresh  upon 
him.  This  scent  confused  her  more.  It  was  the  sharp 
scent  of  vigorous  manhood  in  her  quiet  room,  with  its 
warm  fragrance  of  green  wood  and  rose-geranium.  It 
made  her  nervously  aware  of  herself  and  of  him. 

"Dear  Morris  .  .  .  please  get  up  .  .  ."  she  urged, 
making  a  great  effort  to  be  natural.  "I  can't  think  with 
you  kneeling  there  like  that.  .  .  .  You  confuse  me  ..." 

"I  don't  want  you  to  think  ...  I  want  you  to  feel 
...  I  want  to  confuse  you  ...  I  want  you  to  feel  some 
thing  of  what  I'm  feeling.  .  .  .  Yes,  something  of  it  ... 
something  at  least  ..." 

' '  Don 't  .  .  . ! "  she  murmured. 

Her  brow  contracted,  as  if  with  pain.  Yet  she  tried  to 
smile.  She  was  quite  pale.  So  was  Loring.  But  he  did 
not  move.  His  thirsty  eyes  drank  and  drank  of  her  face. 

"Oh,  you  wonder  .  .  .!"  he  whispered  hurryingly. 
* '  You  wonder  of  the  world  .  .  .  Rose  of  the  World !  .  .  . " 

Suddenly  he  dropped  his  head,  and  began  kissing  the 
velvet  of  her  gown.  She  felt  these  kisses  through  the 
velvet — swift,  wild,  hurried — like  the  alight  and  flight  of 
birds.  His  passion  seemed  winged  like  birds.  And  these 


308  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

wings  beat  about  her,  softly  reckless  and  confusing.  All 
Venus 's  doves  seemed  loosed  in  the  firelit  room.  The 
air  was  thick  with  the  throb  of  their  pinions.  Outside 
thrummed  the  deep,  harsh  chords  of  the  winter  wind.  Out 
side  was  cold,  clear  space — a  frost  of  stars — the  free,  un 
loving  wind.  .  .  . 

She  bent  forward,  quite  desperate  to  feel  herself  thus 
stirred.  With  her  slender,  strong  hands  she  lifted  his  head 
by  force  from  her  knee  .  .  .  tried  to  put  him  from  her. 
.  .  .  She  wanted  to  be  stern.  She  knew  well  that  her  great 
est  weakness  was  in  dealing  with  love.  She  had  always 
temporised.  She  could  never  quite  get  her  own  consent  to 
be  harsh  with  love  of  any  kind.  Even  now  she  could  not 
be  as  stern  as  she  wished  to  be. 

"Morris  .  .  .  really  .  .  .  you  must  not  ...  I  can't 
have  this  ..."  she  said  brokenly. 

He  did  not  yield  to  her  restraining  touch,  but  leaned 
against  her  hands — seized  them  in  his  own,  pressing  down 
his  face  into  them.  She  felt  his  lips  quivering  on  them. 
Her  palms  quickened  with  those  trembling  lips. 

Again  the  collie  growled. 

"There!  You  see  .  .  ."  she  exclaimed  nervously ;  "even 
Dhu  is  vexed  with  you.  .  .  .  Do  you  want  me  to  be  really 
angry  with  you?  .  .  .  Yes — I  shall  be  really  angry  if  you 
keep  this  up  any  longer.  ...  I  shall  be  angry  .  .  .  Mor 
ris!  .  .  ." 

But  he  crouched  before  her,  grasping  the  folds  of  her 
gown  in  both  hands.  He  even  laughed  a  little,  tossing 
back  his  short  locks,  that  had  been  rumpled  against  her 
knee. 

"Be  angry,  then  ..."  he  murmured.  "Be  angry. 
.  .  .  What  do  the  famishing  care  for  anger?  .  .  .  Yes  .  .  . 
I  thirst  for  you  ...  I  don't  hunger  for  you.  .  .  .  There's 
nothing  so  gross  as  hunger  in  my  longing.  .  .  .  But  I 
thirst  ...  I  thirst.  .  .  .  Oh,  Beautiful!  ...  Be  kind. 
.  .  .  What  is  it  to  you  if  I  worship  you  ?  .  .  .  Can  the  wind 
kindle  the  moon?  You  should  have  seen  the  poor,  mad 
wind  trying  to  kindle  her,  as  I  did,  when  I  rode  here  to 
you  this  night!  .  .  .  He  raved  at  her  as  I  rave  at  you. 
.  .  .  And  she  was  just  like  you — oh,  so  like  you !  .  .  .  Cold, 
white,  still,  superior  .  .  .  far  off  there  in  a  heaven  of  her 
own  .  .  .  like  you.  .  .  .  He  couldn't  reach  her.  .  .  . 
Couldn't  warm  her.  .  .  .  Like  me  with  you.  ..." 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  309 

He  broke  off,  a  spasm  marring  the  excited  beauty  of  his 
face. 

"Oh,  don't  I  know  I  can't  warm  you  ...  !"  he  cried. 
"Not  if  I  bathed  you  in  my  heart's  blood — it  would  slip 
from  you  like  a  red  sunset  from  the  moon.  "White  Wonder 
.  .  .  cold  Moon- Woman !  .  .  .  Now  I  know  what  Endym- 
ion  felt  ...  I  know — I  know  ..." 

Sophy  sat  gazing  at  him,  fascinated.  She  was  lapped  in 
a  sort  of  wonder.  Here  was  Love  at  his  miracles  again. 
Could  this  be  "Morry"  Loring — keen  sportsman,  crack 
polo  player — this  frantic  young  Rhapsodist  at  her  knee, 
talking  poetry  as  though  it  were  his  native  tongue?  He 
seemed  unreal  to  her.  She,  herself,  seemed  unreal.  He 
rushed  on: 

"Yes,  yes!  .  .  .  You've  called  me  Endymion  in  mock 
ery.  But  I  am  Endymion.  .  .  .  Did  you  know  that  when 
you  mocked  me?  .  .  .  Did  you  know  that  I  am  really  the 
man  that  drew  down  the  Lady  Moon  ?  .  .  . " 

He  laughed  again.  He  was  so  amazingly  beautiful  as  he 
crouched  there,  laughing  with  love  in  the  firelight,  that 
Sophy  quivered  with  it.  She  felt  dazed.  She  felt  some 
one  other  than  herself.  She  began  to  feel  that  there  was  a 
stranger  within  her — a  woman  she  had  never  known. 
Some  one  wild  and  shy  and  spun  of  moonbeams — a  sort  of 
fairy-Sophy  that  this  ecstatic  youth  was  moulding  out  of 
dream-stuff — that  was  coming  into  ensorceled  life  under 
his  touch  as  Galatea  softened  from  marble  into  flesh  under 
the  caresses  of  Pygmalion.  .  .  . 

She  felt  as  if  she  must  break  away  from  him — escape 
from  the  sound  of  his  feverish,  flooding  words — and  that 
bold-timidity  of  his  eyes  that  so  fascinated  her.  She  tried 
to  rise,  but  he  hemmed  her  in,  with  his  arms  upon  her 
chair,  encircling  yet  not  touching  her. 

He  laughed  very  low  now — it  was  like  a  sort  of  sob 
bing. 

"Oh,  Selene  .  .  .  Selene  .  .  .  Selene  .  .  ."  he  mur 
mured.  "Let  yourself  be  loved  .  .  .  with  worship  .  .  . 
always  with  worship.  I  will  never  forget  that  you  are  a 
goddess,  too.  .  .  .  But  you  shall  never  be  lonely  again  .  .  . 
if  you  will  only  bend  to  me.  .  .  .  There  '11  never  be  tears  in 
your  beautiful  eyes  again.  .  .  .  And  you  were  lonely — you 
know  you  were.  ...  It 's  lonely  work,  Selene,  shining  alone 
in  the  roof  of  heaven. 


310  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

Sophy  put  up  her  hands  to  her  temples,  pressing  the 
hair  back  from  her  face.  Her  dilated  eyes  looked  dazed. 

"  I  ...  I  think  you  're  not  quite  yourself  to-night  ..." 
she  stammered.  There  was  certainly  some  spell  upon  her. 
She  strove  against  it — but  weakly,  like  one  striving  to  wake 
from  an  overpowering  dream. 

He  gave  that  low  laugh  that  so  confused  her. 

"I'm  not  myself  .  .  ."  he  said.  "Haven't  I  told  you 
that  I  am  Endymion?  ..." 

He  leaned  towards  her.  His  face  grew  soft  and  timor 
ous.  She  felt  his  hand  go  stealing  to  her  hair.  One  heavy 
lock  had  fallen  loose.  He  drew  it  to  him,  buried  his  face 
in  it  and  shivered  from  head  to  foot.  Sophy  sat  gazing 
down  at  him.  Her  heart  began  beating  strangely.  The 
curve  of  the  brown  head  bending  near  her  breast  struck 
her  suddenly  with  a  sharp  tenderness.  She  touched  it 
softly  with  her  finger  tips.  At  the  touch  of  her  fingers 
he  trembled  again — then  looked  up — that  wild  shyness  still 
in  his  subdued  eyes.  .  .  .  His  hand  slipped  from  her  hair 
upon  her  neck.  He  knelt  up  and  his  quivering  hand  drew 
her  gently  towards  him.  .  .  . 

"This  once  .  .  .  only  this  once  .  .  ."he  pleaded,  whis 
pering  .  .  .  "to  remember  all  my  life.  ...  I  will  shut  my 
eyes  .  .  .  Selene.  .  .  .  You  can  think  that  I  am  sleeping 
...  as  on  Latinos  ..." 

That  thrall  held  Sophy — that  and  some  wild,  half-law 
less  romance  in  her  own  nature.  It  was  as  though  reason 
forsook  her.  A  veil  woven  of  wind  and  firelight  and  the 
soft  dreaminess  of  youthful  passion  floated  between  her 
and  reality — shut  her  in  from  past  and  future — filmed 
about  her  like  the  pale  smoke  from  an  enchanter's  fire. 
.  .  .  She  let  herself  be  drawn  towards  that  eager  flower  of  • 
the  young,  thirsty  mouth.  Nearer  .  .  .  nearer.  .  .  .  Far, 
far  away,  a  fine,  chill  voice  said:  "No.  This  you  must 
not  do.  ..." 

She  heard  it  as  the  fainting  hear  their  names  called.  An 
instant — then  the  young  lips  touched  hers — delicately — 
clung  trembling.  ...  A  thrill  as  in  dreams — unreal, 
etherealised — ran  through  her.  .  .  .  This  kiss  was  divine. 
Like  nectar  this  kiss  was  to  them  both — long,  miraculous, 
and  mystically  impassioned,  as  a  kiss  on  the  wild  moors 
of  elf -land.  .  .  . 

When  they  came  to  themselves,  they  were  leaning  cheek 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  311 

to  cheek,  hand  in  hand,  gazing  into  the  fire  which  had 
glowed  down  to  molten  jewels.  The  wind  harped  round 
the  quiet  house,  now  low,  now  loud.  A  mouse,  darting  like 
a  wee,  grey  fish,  along  the  wainscoting,  grew  ever  bolder. 
Presently  he  scampered  across  the  train  of  Sophy's  gown — 
then  played  upon  the  hearth-rug.  The  collie  twitched  his 
ruffled  legs  nervously  as  he  lay  sleeping.  But  those  two 
did  not  move.  For  long,  long  minutes  they  sat  there  mo 
tionless,  cheek  to  cheek,  hand  in  hand,  gazing  into  the 
fire.  . 


IX 

BEFORE  Loring  went  away,  an  hour  later,  he  put  a  fresh 
log  on  the  fire,  smiling  up  at  her  shyly,  as  he  knelt  to  do  so. 

"I'll  mend  the  altar  fire  in  your  temple  before  I  go, 
Selene,"  he  had  murmured. 

He  felt  strangely  subdued  and  awed  after  the  wonder  of 
that  kiss.  The  enchantment  that  was  over  them  held  awe 
for  them  both.  There  was  in  it  something  mystic — an 
influence  blowing,  as  it  were,  from  home-lands  of  the  soul 
dimly  remembered.  Sophy  felt  this  consciously — Loring 
unconsciously.  But  he  felt  things  through  her,  since  that 
kiss.  There  had  been  between  them  during  that  long- 
blossoming  kiss  a  transfusion  of  spirit.  She  was  through 
and  through  him  like  music — like  sunlight  through  the 
fibrils  of  a  plant,  from  flower  to  root.  And  this  subtle 
fusion  made  him  know  just  what  to  say  and  do  to  satisfy 
her.  It  was  this  new-lent  instinct  that  had  made  him  so 
still  after  the  wild  magic  of  that. kiss  had  set  his  blood  and 
spirit  singing.  When  she  had  whispered  at  last:  "Go 
now  .  .  .  dear  .  .  ."  he  had  risen  without  a  protest.  It 
was  then  he  had  knelt  to  put  the  fresh  log  on  her  fire. 
Afterwards  he  had  bent  and  touched  his  lips  to  her  hands 
as  they  lay  together  in  her  lap — then  to  the  shining,  fire- 
warmed  tress  that  flowed  over  her  shoulder.  He  had  gone 
out,  closing  the  door  noiselessly  as  though  she  were  in  some 
mysterious  trance,  and  he  feared  to  waken  her. 

As  in  a  trance  himself,  he  had  fetched  Proud  Aleck  from 
the  old  stable.  The  horse  had  nickered  when  he  heard  him 
coming.  In  the  fragrant  darkness  of  the  stable,  Loring 
had  thrown  an  arm  over  the  bay's  neck.  "You  brought  me 


312 

to  her  this  night  .  .  ."he  whispered.  He  drew  the  horse's 
muzzle  towards  him.  and  pressed  his  lips  to  the  broad 
front.  He  continued  for  some  moments  leaning  against 
the  great  horse  that  quivered  with  impatience  to  be  gone. 
He  felt  faint  and  languid.  It  was  as  if  he  had  really  been 
only  mortal  and  she  a  goddess.  His  mortality  seemed  to 
fail  under  the  bliss  of  this  contact  with  immortality.  It 
was  as  though  sudden  godhead  had  been  bestowed  on  him 
and  his  flesh  were  consuming  under  it  into  a  finer  essence. 

There  was  no  pride  as  yet  in  his  wonder.  That  beautiful 
humility  of  real  love  still  held  him.  He  was  not  even 
exultant  that  his  "will"  had  won  at  last.  He  did  not  feel 
as  though  he  had  conquered  but  as  though  some  great 
Winged  Victory  had  caught  him  up  and  set  him  on  this 
height,  with  its  veil  of  golden  mist.  It  was  not  the  king 
doms  of  the  earth  that  were  offered  him — but  the  king 
doms  of  the  air  ...  starry  places  .  .  .  Diana's  cloud- 
land  .  .  .  hanging-gardens  of  the  gods.  .  .  . 

Loring  was  rapt  into  the  ecstatic  state  of  "conversion." 
.  .  .  He  was  experiencing  all  the  giddily  rapturous  throes 
and  exquisite  frenzies  of  what  is  known  as  "revelation" — 
only  its  cause  was  not  divine  but  human  love.  He  moved 
in  a  vision  of  clear  light.  Like  Sophy,  he  was  a  stranger 
to  himself,  yet  he  felt  that  this  new  self  was  not  really  the 
stranger,  but  that  old  self  which  lay  dark  and  shrivelled  at 
the  roots  of  being,  like  the  husk  of  a  seed,  from  which  has 
sprung  the  triumphing  blossom.  .  .  .  He  rode  home  as  on 
a  \vind  of  dreams.  The  splendid  moon,  now  soaring  in 
mid-heaven,  seemed  set  there  as  a  symbol  for  him,  and  him 
alone.  "Selene  .  .  .  Selene  .  .  .  Selene  ..."  went  the 
hoofs  of  the  great,  red  horse,  like  the  strokes  of  a  Rhap- 
sodist,  beating  time  to  the  music  in  his  heart.  .  .  . 

And  Sophy,  too,  was  all  be-glamoured.  She  had  heard 
the  fairy-harp,  she  had  listened  to  music  blown  from  the 
land  of  Heart's  Desire.  lor,  the  fairy  chief,  had  kissed 
her  eyes  and  lips.  She  was  amazed,  bemused — deep  down 
in  her  heart  there  was  a  great  fear.  Yet  there  was  joy 
also.  Not  the  sane  joy  of  everyday  .  .  .  but  a  fragile,  iri 
descent  trembling  as  of  a  dewy  gossamer  spun  between  the 
lintels  of  the  door  of  Dreams.  She  was  afraid  to  move 
lest  she  should  destroy  this  delicate,  fine-spun  joy.  Beyond 
its  veil  glimmered  the  wings  of  golden  dreams.  She  knew 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  313 

well  how  Diana  must  have  felt  after  she  had  kissed  the 
sleeping  shepherd. 

She  was  like  one  in  some  old-time  fable,  who  gives  a 
wanderer  a  cup  of  water,  and,  lo!  after  drinking,  the 
wanderer  shakes  back  his  cloak  of  hodden-grey,  and  it  is 
Eros  himself  glowing  against  the  twilight — she  had  enter 
tained,  unawares,  the  mightiest  angel  of  them  all.  The 
soft,  electric  plumes  of  Love  had  folded  down  upon  her. 
She  was  smothered  in  his  sparkling  wings,  yet  this  lovely 
death  only  released  her  to  new  life.  It  was  only  her  self 
of  later  years  that  was  dying  softly.  She  felt  herself 
gleaming,  slipping  from  the  hard  shell  of  years — a  pearl 
released,  a  pearl  bathed  in  seas  of  wonder. 

Back  to  her  earliest  girlhood  she  was  washed  .  .  .  back, 
back  to  that  shore  where  all  is  dream  and  miracle.  .  .  . 
When  she  had  loved  Cecil,  she  had  not  been  so  young ;  she 
was  younger  now  than  when  she  had  wept  over  her  first 
lover's  death.  She  was  not  only  young — she  was  youth 
itself.  She  was  not  standing  outside  the  door  of  dreams  as 
she  had  fancied,  but  within  it.  That  trembling,  iridescent 
gossamer  of  joy  shut  out  reality — the  past,  the  future — 
shut  her  in  with  the  lovely  serving-maidens,  dreams  ful 
filled.  ...  It  seemed  to  her  that  all  the  poetry  of  the 
world  was  flowering  in  her  heart.  Her  breast  felt  full  of 
roses  .  .  .  red  and  white  roses  of  love  for  every  mood.  .  .  . 

Her  little  travelling  clock  struck  twelve.  It  seemed  like 
the  voice  of  a  malicious  fairy  rousing  her  from  her  too 
lovely  trance.  She  started  up.  The  collie  sprang  up  with 
her,  and  stood  alert,  ears  cocked,  eyes  upon  her  face.  She 
looked  about  her  dazedly.  The  room  was  not  the  same. 
It  gazed  back  at  her  with  a  new  expression.  She  felt  as 
if  bodily  she,  too,  had  grown  different — were  looking  at 
the  old,  familiar  objects  from  a  child's  stature.  The 
plants  in  the  windows  seemed  larger.  They  were  like  a 
fairy  forest.  As  the  firelight  caught  the  crimson  and  pur 
ple  bells  of  the  fuchsias,  they  seemed  to  sway — to  ring 
forth  a  faint,  wild  music.  .  .  . 

She  put  her  hands  to  her  face.  This  racing  of  her 
fancy  was  like  a  light  fever.  And  now  when  she  glanced 
up  again,  she  saw  the  fuchsias  like  strange  insects  flying 
among  their  leaves.  Their  scarlet  stamens  were  like  the 
frail  legs  of  wasps  drooped  for  flight.  .  .  .  She  went  up 
and  touched  one  softly,  to  assure  herself  that  it  was  a 


314  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

flower.  Fuchsias  were  never  like  other  flowers  to  her 
after  that  night. 

She  broke  one  off  and  took  it  with  her  upstairs.  Her 
bedroom  also  greeted  her  with  a  new  look.  The  fire  was 
almost  out.  She  kneeled  down  to  mend  it.  As  the  flame 
sprang  to  life  again  beneath  her  fingers,  she  thought  of 
"The  Witch  of  Atlas":  "...  Men  scarcely  know  how 
beautiful  fire  is.  .  .  . "  She  knew.  She  knelt  there,  ador 
ing  the  delicate  flame,  purest  and  fiercest  of  elements.  Yes 
— fire  was  purity  itself.  This  lovely  fire  in  her  own  heart 
purified  her.  She  was  a  Phcenix  .  .  .  the  ashes  of  her  life 
were  only  a  soft,  pale  nest  from  which  she  had  risen  thus 
glorious.  Or  no — the  Dark  Goddess  had  lain  her  on  the 
coals  of  pain  .  .  .  now  she  was  immortal.  This  white  flame 
within  her  was  immortality.  .  .  . 

She  slept  fitfully  but  deliciously  that  night.  Every  little 
while  she  would  start  awake.  It  was  as  if  he  spoke  to  her, 
saying:  "Wake,  beloved — I,  too,  am  wakeful.  ..."  It 
was  delicious  to  wake  thus  and  drift  delicately  backward 
on  the  tide  of  dreams  into  that  haven  of  light,  rapturous 
sleep.  Love  hummed  about  her  like  a  fairy  bee  and  stung 
reason  to  numbness.  All  night  long,  sleeping  or  waking, 
phantasy  rocked  her  softly.  The  warm,  firelit  air  seemed 
abeat  with  the  wings  of  the  white  doves  of  Venus.  .  .  . 

When  she  woke  fully  next  morning,  Sophy  thought  at 
first  that  she  had  been  dreaming.  Then  all  came  back  to 
her.  She  started  up  in  bed.  Fright  seized  her — sheer, 
panic-terror.  What  had  she  done  and  felt?  What  had 
come  to  her?  .  .  . 

Mammy  Nan  had  kindled  a  roaring  fire,  and  thrown  wide 
the  shutters.  The  brilliant  January  sun  streamed  over  the 
carpet.  The  sky  was  blue  and  bitter,  without  a  cloud. 
Naked  and  unashamed,  the  bold  winter  morning  glared  in 
upon  her.  She  shrank  from  it,  feeling  small  and  fright 
ened  like  a  child  stripped  for  a  bath  in  the  ocean  which  it 
sees  for  the  first  time. 

What  had  come  to  her?  .  .  .  Then  she  recalled  the  deli 
cate  clinging  of  that  young,  ardent  mouth,  and  her  own 
blood  submerged  her,  pulsing  in  one  shamed  wave  from 
head  to  feet.  .  .  .  She  would  not  think.  She  sprang  from 
bed  and  plunged  into  the  icy  water  of  her  morning  bath 
that  was  all  netted  with  sunbeams.  She  dressed  without 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  315 

knowing  that  she  dressed.  All  the  time  she  kept  saying 
within  herself,  ''What  has  come  to  me?  .  .  .  What  has 
come  to  me?" 

She  went  to  the  window — stared  up  at  the  cloudless 
blue  that  seemed  to  swim  with  crystal  beads  as  she 
gazed. 

"My  God,  what  has  happened  to  me?  .  .  .  What  is  this 
that  has  happened  to  me?"  she  asked.  Lacing  her  fingers 
hard  together,  she  kept  murmuring:  "What  is  it?  ... 
My  God!  .  .  .  what  is  it?" 

She  felt  ridiculous  and  abased  in  her  own  sight;  but  the 
glamour  was  stealing  over  her  again.  "It  is  impossible 
.  .  .  utterly  impossible ! ' '  she  kept  telling  herself.  Yet  at 
the  bottom  of  it  all,  shining  up  through  darkling  depths, 
was  that  fairy-geld  of  joy,  like  the  gold  crown  on  the  head 
of  the  frog  in  the  folk  tale.  Recalling  this  old  fable  of 
her  childhood,  she  laughed  unwillingly.  It  was  a  wry 
laugh,  indeed.  "Yes,"  she  told  herself,  "a  frog  with  a 
gold  crown — that  is  what  this  craziness  amounts  to.  ... 
I  am  ridiculous  .  .  .  ridiculous  .  .  . ! "  She  looked  harshly 
at  her  reflection  in  the  mirror.  ' '  You  are  ridiculous, ' '  she 
said  to  it. 

But  there  was  more  than  her  own  absurdity  to  think  of — 
there  was  Loring.  She  had  to  consider  him.  And  at  the 
mere  thought  of  him,  again  came  that  frantic  blush  sub 
merging  her.  What  so  ravaged  her  was  the  thought  that 
this  wild,  unreal  feeling  could  not  be  love.  Then  she  had 
kissed  him,  had  let  him  kiss  her  unworthily.  She  felt  as 
though  falling  headlong  down  abysses  in  her  own  nature 
of  which  she  had  never  dreamed.  Had  she,  then,  a  wanton 
streak  in  her?  Was  she  of  that  most  contemptible  breed 
of  mature  women  who  like  to  scorch  themselves  delicately 
at  the  fires  of  youth  ? 

This  so  horrified  her  that  she  dropped  into  a  chair,  feel 
ing  physically  faint.  She  sat  there  so  long  that  Mammy 
Nan  put  her  head  in  at  the  door  and  said  severely :  ' '  Miss 
Sophy,  yo'  coffee's  gettin'  corpse-cold.  Dee  bell  done  rang 
twict.  ..." 

Sophy  obeyed  the  stern  voice  of  Mammy  Nan,  from  the 
instinct  of  a  hectored  childhood.  She  rose  at  once  and 
went  meekly  to  drink  the  coffee  that  she  did  not  want. 
She  actually  ate  a  waffle  under  the  tyrannical  gaze  of  her 
old  nurse.  It  was  like  trying  to  swallow  a  bit  of  flannel. 


316  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

She  rebelled  suddenly,  and,  laying  down  her  knife  and 
fork,  said  :  ' '  I  'm  not  hungry  this  morning,  Mammy — I 
can't  eat." 

With  this  she  went  to  her  study — and  found  Loring 
standing  before  the  fire.  How  it  happened,  Sophy  could 
not  tell ;  but  like  a  homing-pigeon  she  went  to  him,  and  her 
head  was  on  his  breast,  and  his  arms  around  her  without 
a  word  spoken.  And  as  his  arms  went  round  her,  she  knew 
suddenly  that  she  was  deathly  tired.  She  also  knew  quite 
simply  that,  ridiculous,  impossible,  fantastic  as  it  might  be, 
she  loved  him.  This  knowledge  was  so  soothing  after  the 
terrible  idea  that  had  come  to  her  a  little  while  ago — the 
sick  fear  that  her  kiss  had  been  only  of  the  senses,  no 
matter  how  superfined — that  she  leaned  against  him  in  a 
sort  of  rapture  of  repose.  For  the  moment  she  was  safe — 
afterwards  the  deluge.  This  reassurance  of  her  finer  na 
ture  made  all  else  seem  trivial  for  the  time  being.  She 
loved  him.  She,  the  mature,  bitterly  experienced  woman, 
loved  this  youth !  Well — it  was  ridiculous,  but  it  was  not 
unworthy.  The  higher  gods  might  laugh,  but  they  could 
not  turn  from  her  in  disgust. 

"My  Beautiful  .  .  .  my  Beautiful!  ..."  Loring  was 
murmuring,  his  lips  against  her  hair. 

That  keen,  fresh,  wholesome  scent  of  horse  and  leather 
and  outer  air  brought  the  past  night  back  to  her  in  one 
blinding  flare.  She  stood  so  silent  that  he  began  to  laugh, 
low  and  nervously. 

"I  didn't  sleep  a  wink  all  night,  Selene.  ...  I  was 
with  you  in  some  queer  way.  Did  you  feel  me?  .  .  .  Or 
.  .  .  did  you  sleep  ? ' ' 

"No,  dear  .  .  ." 

His  arms  tightened. 

"Did  love  keep  you  awake  too,  my  Beautiful — love  .  .  . 
for  me?" 

It  was  a  whisper. 

Sophy  withdrew  herself  from  his  arms.  She  sank  into 
the  deep  chair  where  she  had  been  sitting  last  evening,  and, 
as  then,  he  came  and  knelt  beside  her.  His  eyes  went 
thirstily  to  hers,  and  as  she  met  those  bold,  soft  eyes,  the 
scarlet  leaped  to  her  face. 

"Oh!  .  .  .  like  a  little  girl  .  .  ."  he  cried,  enchanted. 
"You  blush  for  me  like  any  little  girl.  ..." 

Sophy  blushed   deeper  still.     Her  voice   faltered   with 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  317 

shame  for  her  own  foolishness  of  belated  love.  She  really 
thought  herself  middle-aged  at  thirty.  The  four  years' 
difference  in  her  age  and  Loring's  seemed  to  her  an  ab 
surd,  impassable  gulf.  This  sense  of  shame  braced  her  to 
reason  with  him. 

"Morris  ..."  she  began. 

He  broke  into  that  low,  exultant  laughter  which  so  con 
fused  her. 

' '  Oh,  little  girl ! ' '  he  cried  again.  ' '  She  is  so  young  this 
morning  that  she  lisps.  .  .  .  She  calls  me  'Morrith.'  ' 
And  indeed  Sophy  had  lisped  over  his  name  as  she  some 
times  lisped  in  moments  of  excitement.  She  was  over 
whelmed  to  feel  another  blush  suffuse  her.  She  bit  her  lip 
— tried  to  frown,  looking  away  from  him  into  the  fire.  He 
continued  laughing.  His  laughter  stirred  the  hair  on  her 
bent  neck.  Unwillingly  she,  too,  began  to  laugh.  But 
this  laughter  was  very  near  to  tears.  That  subtle  essence 
of  herself  which  she  had  imparted  to  him  made  him  sud 
denly  grave. 

"What  is  it,  my  Wonder?"  he  asked  softly.  "I  am 
listening  ..." 

"Then  .  .  .  dear  ..."  she  said  very  low,  "this  .  .  . 
that  has  happened  is  ...  beautiful  .  .  .  but  .  .  .  but  it 
is  only  a  dream.  .  .  .  We  ...  we  must  wake  now  ..." 

"Bend  down  and  see  .  .  ."  he  whispered.  "I  am  not 
dream-stuff,  Beautiful.  Bend  down  to  me  again  ...  as 
last  evening  ..." 

"No,  my  dear  ...  no  and  no  .  .  ." 

' '  Then  I  must  reach  to  you  ..." 

She  felt  the  nutter  of  his  lips  at  her  mouth's  edge.  She 
drew  aside,  holding  him  from  her.  The  words  came  quick 
and  short. 

"It  is  absurd.  I  am  too  old  .  .  .  you  are  too  young. 
.  .  .  Heaven  and  earth  would  laugh  at  us.  ...  I  am  a 
woman  who  has  lived  through  horrors  .  .  .  yes,  horrors. 
.  .  .  You  are  just  at  the  beginning  .  .  ." 

"Yes  .  .  .  just  at  the  beginning — with  you,  my  Won 
derful!" 

'  My  dear,  dear  boy  ..." 

'Boy'  for  your  whim.  .  .  .  'Man'  to  love  you  ..." 
'Oh,  be  reasonable!  ..." 

'  I  wouldn  't  be  reasonable  for  the  throne  of  Caesar — 
'You  must  be  serious.  .      .  You  must  let  me  talk  seri- 


318  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

ously  with  you.  I  ...  I  shall  be  offended  if  you  do  not. 
I  shall  think  your  love  is  only  froth." 

This  brought  him  upright,  a  queer  gleam  in  his  eyes. 

"Well,  then  .  .  ."  he  said.  It  was  his  Marmion  tone. 
It  implied,  "Come  one,  come  all;  this  rock  shall  fly  from 
its  firm  base  as  soon  as  I." 

"Go  on,  please  .  .  ."he  added,  as  she  did  not  at  once 
speak. 

"Then,"  said  Sophy,  looking  away  from  him,  "you  must 
think  of  last  night  as  ...  as  a  'Twelfth  Night's'  madness. 
Very  sweet.  .  .  .  Yes,  beautiful  in  its  way  .  .  .  but  just  a 
moment's  dream.  .  .  .  When  you  .  .  .  really  love  some 
one  .  .  .  you  will  know  that  it  was  only  a  dream  ..." 

"  'When  I  really  love  some  one'?" 

"Yes." 

"You  think  that?" 

"Yes." 

"Would  you  mind  looking  at  me?" 

"No  .  .  ." 

But  her  eyes  wavered,  and  the  soft  red  ran  up  again  into 
her  face,  as  she  met  that  young,  keen  look,  all  fierce  with 
wounded  love. 

"How  dare  you  say  that  I  do  not  love  you  really?"  he 
demanded,  his  voice  shaking  with  passion.  "Even  Selene 
didn't  trample  on  Endymion 

She  went  pale. 

"My  dear  .  .  ." 

' '  How  can  you  call  me  '  your  dear, '  and  yet  set  your  foot 
down  like  that — hard — right  on  my  bare  heart?  How  can 
you  suggest  that  my  love  for  you  is  not  real?" 

He  flung  his  arm  about  her  suddenly — caught  both  her 
hands  in  his. 

"Listen  .  .  ."he  said.  "Perhaps  because  I  bring  you 
worship,  too,  you  think  that  I  don't  love  you  with  man's 
love.  .  .  .  But  it's  because  I  love  you  so  madly  that  I 
bring  you  worship.  I  wouldn't  soil  the  soles  of  your  shoes 
with  what  most  men  call  love.  I  never  believed  in  this 
kind  .  .  .  this  that  I  feel  for  you.  But,  by  God !  I  've 
found  it  is  real !  It  only  kneels  because  it 's  so  strong. 
Because  it's  so  strong,  it  has  reverence.  Do  you  under 
stand?  Now  give  me  your  lips  to  worship.  Don't  waste 
them  in  words.  You  needn't  fear  my  kisses  .  .  .  white 
Moon.  I  wouldn't  sully  you  with  base  fire." 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  319 

He  had  drawn  her  to  her  feet.  He  held  her  crushed 
against  him.  His  face  was  white  and  fine  with  purifying 
fire. 

Sophy  felt  awe  steal  over  her.  This  was  no  boy  that 
held  her.  His  love  made  him  her  equal.  And  he  offered 
her  what  she  had  craved  without  knowing  it — the  fire  of 
love  tempered  with  adoration. 

"Give  me  your  lips,  my  Wonder  .  .  .  my  white  Won 
der!"  he  was  commanding,  yet  there  was  also  pleading  in 
his  voice.  ''Give  me  your  lips,  that  I  may  show  you  how  I 
love  you  .  .  .  not  with  gross  hunger,  but  with  thirst  .  .  . 
divine  thirst.  ..." 

That  golden  trance  crept  over  her,  as  on  the  night  be 
fore.  Her  head  lay  drowned  in  its  thick  hair  against  his 
breast.  He  stooped  slowly,  marvelling  at  the  rapt  beauty 
of  her  white,  upturned  face.  Like  a  face  coming  slowly 
towards  her  through  deep  waters,  his  face  bent  nearer. 
There  was  that  fine,  quivering  touch  upon  her  lips — then 
their  mouths  melted  into  one.  .  .  . 

This  kiss  was  no  less  marvellous  than  their  first  had 
been.  But  it  held  this  difference :  With  it  she  yielded 
herself  consciously,  though  against  her  judgment. 

They  stood  there  tranced,  after  this  long  kiss  was  over, 
as  they  had  sat  hand  in  hand  the  evening  before. 

He  said  shakenly  at  last: 

'"Too  young'?  .  .  .  'Too  young'— am  I?  God!— I  feel 
as  though  I  had  been  from  everlasting  ..." 


BUT  though  Sophy  yielded  to  these  first  bewildering  mo 
ments  of  sudden  glamour,  she  was  not  in  the  least  minded 
to  enter  into  a  long,  unbroken,  spellbound  dalliance.  Lor- 
ing  found  himself  very  short  of  kisses  indeed  during  the 
next  few  weeks. 

Sophy,  as  it  were,  got  her  head  above  those  heavy, 
golden  waves.  She  gasped  deep  of  the  fresh  air  of  reason. 
She  would  not  sink  down  to  this  strange,  love-lighted  un 
derworld  without  a  final  struggle  for  freedom,  for  the  clear 
daylight  of  common  sense.  He  had  to  listen  to  much  plain 
speaking.  Sometimes  he  sulked,  sometimes  fumed ;  usually 


320  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

he  ended  by  laughing  with  that  low  laughter  against  which 
she  felt  so  oddly  helpless.  There  is  nothing  in  the  world 
more  disconcerting  than  this  low,  mocking  laughter  of 
love  that  knows  itself  stronger  than  reason.  In  vain  Sophy 
pointed  out  to  him  the  difference  in  their  ages,  in  their 
tastes  (this  he  furiously  denied).  She  sternly  bade  him 
listen  while  she  read  aloud  from  books  that  were  her  daily 
food.  He  listened  with  heroism. 

But  one  evening  over  Plotinus  he  actually  nodded.  They 
had  been  hunting.  The  geranium-scented  warmth  of  her 
study,  the  soft  crackle  of  the  fire,  her  lulling  contralto 
voice  as  she  read  aloud  to  him  the  words  of  the  mystic 
whom  he  privately  thought  "a  hipped  old  Johnny"  be 
cause  he  was  so  ashamed  of  having  a  body  that  he  wouldn't 
tell  his  birth-date  .  .  .  (How  Loring  despised  him  for  this 
denial  of  ruddy  life!) — these  things,  together  with  the 
deep  comfort  of  the  old,  leather  armchair  in  which  he  sat, 
caused  him  to  doze  pleasantly.  He  woke  with  a  jerk,  at 
the  sudden  stopping  of  her  voice.  Her  grey  eyes  were 
fixed  on  him  over  the  volume  of  Plotinus,  cool  and  smi 
ling. 

"You  see?"  she  said.  "What  rouses  my  soul  puts  you 
to  sleep!" 

Loring  had  looked  at  her  sombrely. 

"I'll  tell  you  what  7  think,"  he  had  said  at  last.  "I 
think  you  fence  yourself  about  with  these  old  philosopher 
Johnnies  because  you're  afraid  of  love.  That's  what  I 
think,  Beautiful." 

Sophy  had  coloured,  which  always  delighted  him.  He 
felt  that  he  had  won  when  her  blood  rose  at  his  words. 

She  pointed  out  to  him  the  complications  that  would 
arise  in  their  life  together,  from  the  fact  that  Bobby  would 
have  to  be  educated  in  England. 

"I  couldn't  possibly  let  him  go  there  alone,"  she  said. 
"His  grandmother  dislikes  me,  as  I've  told  you.  She'd  do 
all  in  her  power  to  wean  him  from  me.  And  it's  absolutely 
right  and  necessary  that  he  should  grow  up  an  English 
man  ..." 

"He  can  grow  up  a  Timbuctooan,  for  all  I  care,"  Loring 
had  replied,  unmoved.  "I've  always  wanted  to  hunt  in 
the  'Shires.  We  can  have  a  country  place  near  Mel 
ton  .  .  ." 

"You'd  expatriate  yourself?"  Sophy  asked  severely. 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  321 

" Nonsense,  Diana!  You're  too  Olympian  sometimes. 
Good  Americans  can  live  all  over  the  place  and  still  feel 
that  'little  old  New  York  is  good  enough  for  them.'  : 

"There's  another  thing,"  Sophy  had  retorted:  "I  am 
sure  that  I  shan  't  care  for  New  York — and  as  ...  well,  as 
Mrs.  Loring,  I  should  have  to  live  there.  ..." 

"Only  a  bit  in  the  winter.  And  it  would  do  you  good, 
Beautiful.  You  like  homage — you  know  you  do.  You'd 
be  first  and  beautifulest  there.  Thank  God,  I'm  so  rotten 
rich!  .  .  .  You'll  queen  it,  I  can  tell  you." 

"Are  you  so  rich,  Morris?" 

"I  am— rather.     Why?" 

"Because  that's  another  thing.  ...  I  hate  this  over- 
richness  of  some  Americans.  I  feel  as  if  my  throat  and 
eyes  were  full  of  gold-dust  when  I'm  with  them.  I  don't 
mean  I  'm  such  a  goose  as  to  despise  money — but  I  do  hate 
this  .  .  .  this  sort  of  golden  Elephantiasis  that  deforms  so 
many  Americans  ..." 

Loring  gazed  up  at  her  with  wondering  adoration. 

' '  By  George  ! "  he  said  humbly,  "  it 's  downright  awe- 
inspiring  to  feel  that  you  don't  care  a  hang  for  my  being 
rich.  That  you  only  care  .  .  .  what  little  you  do  care  .  .  . 
for  me,  myself. ' ' 

' '  '  King  Midas  has  the  ears  of  an  ass, '  : '  Sophy  had 
laughed,  pulling  the  one  next  her. 

He  had  responded  only  too  quickly  to  this  slight  caress. 
She  had  to  put  both  hands  to  her  face  to  shield  herself 
from  his  eager  kisses. 

"Ah,  dearest — be  kind.  ...  Do  ...  Ah,  do!"  he  had 
pleaded.  But  she  had  said,  "No  ...  I  shall  be  sensible — 
if  that's  being  unkind.  ...  I  won't  be  rushed  into  elf- 
land  by  the  hair  of  my  head.  I  ...  I  won't  be  .  .  . 
honey fuggled.  ..." 

And  they  had  laughed  together. 

Sophy  finally  got  quite  desperate  with  the  fruitless  strug 
gle  against  him  and  against  herself.  She  banished  him 
ruthlessly  for  two  weeks.  He  rebelled  in  vain.  "I  must 
have  this  time  quite  to  myself,"  she  told  him.  "I  must 
think  things  out  .  .  .  alone." 

Loring  found  himself  frantic  thus  exiled  to  the  Mac- 
farlanes,  cut  off  from  his  heart's  desire  by  six  country 
miles  as  by  the  powers  of  darkness.  He  fled  to  Florida  for 
a  fortnight's  tarpon-fishing.  Then  came  her  letters.  He 


322  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

thought  he  should  go  mad  over  those  letters.  She  played 
on  him  like  the  wind  on  water.  Now  he  was  all  melting 
ripples  under  her  delicate  words — now  some  phrase  sent 
his  passion  leaping  mountain-high.  ...  In  the  last  letter 
she  said :  ' '  Come  back  to  me.  ...  I  miss  you  as  the  rose 
misses  the  honey  from  her  heart  ...  as  the  stem  misses 
the  gathered  flower.  ...  I  crave  you  as  a  sail  might  crave 
the  wild  wind  that  gives  it  life.  Dear  .  .  .  my  dearest 
...  I  know  now  why  the  'wisdom  of  men  is  foolishness 
to  God.'  .  .  .  God  is  Love  .  .  .  my  wisdom  is  foolishness 
to  Love.  ...  So  I  give  you  my  foolish  wisdom  for  a  car 
pet  under  your  feet.  And  my  wise  foolishness  I  give  you 
for  a  seal  upon  your  heart.  .  .  .  But  myself  I  cannot  give 
you,  for  I  was  yours  when  Love  spread  the  foundations  of 
the  world.  ..." 

For  she  had  found  when  Loring  was  far  from  her  that 
' '  her  heart  was  within  him. ' '  She  found  the  plain,  wheaten 
bread  of  Philosophy  dreary  fare  without  the  honey  of  ro 
mance.  Poetry  fled  from  her  like  a  wild,  shy  bird,  that 
would  only  come  to  one  call.  With  his  name  she  could  lure 
it.  She  wrote  page  after  page  of  love-verse  as  a  sort  of 
bridal  offering  for  his  return.  She  knew  that  there  was 
madness  in  her  mood,  but  it  seemed  a  high  and  holy  sort 
of  frenzy — like  the  spiritual  dementia  that  sends  martyrs 
singing  to  the  pyre.  So  she  sung  amid  the  flames  that  so 
exquisitely  consumed  her.  For  this  was  not  a  usual  pas 
sion  that  she  felt  for  Loring.  She  would  have  preferred 
that  their  love-life  should  be  one  long,  ecstatic  betrothal. 
She  would  have  liked  to  give  him  the  flower  of  love  without 
its  fruit.  Yet  his  love  was  so  different  from  all  other  loves 
that  she  had  known  ...  it  was  so  finely  winged — so  woven 
with  adoration  ...  so  fresh  as  with  the  dews  of  youth's 
first  dawn;  in  her  the  answering  love  was  so  immaculate, 
veiled  with  imagination  as  for  a  first  communion ;  all  was 
so  beautifully  and  perfectly  harmonious  between  them, 
that  she  could  not  imagine  discord  ever  following  on  this 
enchanted  symphony. 

And  granted  that  their  tastes  were  not  always  the  same 
.  .  .  granted  that  she  was  older,  that  he  seemed  but  a  boy 
to  her  at  times — must  love  mean  oneness  in  all  things? 
Was  not  oneness  of  heart  and  spirit  enough?  And  was 
not  woman  immemorially  older  than  man — the  first  created, 
but  not  the  first  conceived? — Did  not  the  Christian  faith 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  323 

give  even  God  a  mother,  as  if  Divinity  itself  must  needs  be 
child  of  the  eternal  feminine? 

And  because  the  great,  tender  mother  in  her  cherished 
Loring,  the  shy,  wild  lover  in  her  only  loved  him  more. 


XI 

THEY  kept  their  secret  from  every  one  until  May. 

The  greatest  pang  that  Sophy  felt  at  this  time  (and  she 
had  not  a  few)  was  the  fact  that  Bobby  was  to  be  left  at 
Sweet-AVaters  during  these  months  of  absence.  They  had 
never  been  a  day,  much  less  a  night,  apart  since  he  was 
born.  Now  she  would  leave  him,  in  Charlotte 's  care,  whom 
he  dearly  loved,  it  is  true,  but — she  would  leave  him. 

Charlotte  could  not  throw  off  the  depression  caused  by 
this  fulfilment  of  her  anxious  prognostications. 

"She  may  be  happy  now,"  she  told  her  Joe;  "but  oh! 
what  will  she  feel — say  in  two  years — when  she  wakes  up?" 

The  Judge  admitted  the  possibility  of  Sophy's  present 
joy  suffering  a  diminution.  He  even  went  so  far  as  to  say 
that  very  possibly  there  might  be  some  disillusionment  for 
her  in  the  soberer  future — but  he  roundly  approved  her 
present  joy. 

' '  Doggone  it,  Charlotte ! ' '  he  exclaimed,  using  the  one 
form  of  oath  that  he  permitted  himself.  "The  poor  girl's 
seen  enough  misery.  Why  shouldn't  she  be  happy  in  her 
own  way?  This  Loring  is  a  nice  fellow.  He's  rich  .  .  . 
that's  not  to  be  sneezed  at,  let  me  tell  you,  old  lady.  He's 
good-tempered :  he 's  a  gentleman — he 's  heels  over  head  in 
love  with  her  ..." 

* '  And  he 's  four  .  .  .  nearly  five  years  younger, ' '  put  in 
Charlotte  sternly. 

The  Judge  rubbed  his  dusky  wreath  of  hair  the  wrong 
way  about  his  fine,  bald  poll — a  sure  sign  that  he  was  "up 
against"  a  knotty  question. 

"That's  a  pity,  I  admit,"  he  said  rather  lamely.  Like 
Charlotte,  he  had  very  old-fashioned  notions  about  the 
desirability — almost  the  necessity — of  a  husband's  being 
the  elder  of  his  wife.  It  shocked  his  fixed  ideals,  when 
brought  face  to  face  with  it  in  this  plump  manner,  that 
Sophy  should  be  her  lover's  senior  by  four  years. 


324  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

Charlotte's  fly-away  eyebrows  came  down  and  joined. 

"It's  a  tragedy  and  it's  a  shame!"  said  she. 

"No,  no  .  .  .  no,  no, "  almost  coaxed  the  Judge.  "Not  a 
shame,  Chartie — a  pity  if  you  like.  .  .  .  Yes  ...  it  cer 
tainly  is  a  pity — but  ..." 

Charlotte's  very  apprehension  for  her  sister  made  her 
bitter. 

"It's  just  another  of  Sophy's  tragic  mistakes,"  said  she. 
"I  did  think  that  awful  experience  had  cured  her  of  mak 
ing  mistakes." 

Her  husband  looked  at  her  rather  whimsically  from 
under  the  fluff  of  smoky  black  that  he  had  forgotten  to 
smooth  down  again. 

"Are  you  so  doggone  sure  of  making  no  more  mistakes 
till  you  die,  old  lady?" 

Charlotte  jerked  a  snarled  place  from  her  black  curls 
by  main  force.  She  did  not  even  notice  the  acute  pain,  so 
great  was  her  agitation  over  what  she  considered  this  last 
dire  error  of  her  sister. 

' '  That 's  not  the  point, ' '  she  said  firmly.  She  pinned  up 
the  now  carded  mass  with  two  long,  silver  hairpins  as  she 
had  done  every  night  for  twenty  years,  then  went  into  her 
especial  dressing-closet  to  fetch  her  night-gown. 

It  was  the  evening  of  the  fateful  day  on  which  Sophy 
had  announced  her  coming  marriage  to  Loring,  and  hus 
band  and  wife  were  preparing  for  sleep,  in  the  big, 
friendly  room  which  they  shared  together.  In  this  room 
were  two  large,  old-fashioned  closets,  each  having  its  win 
dow,  its  washstand,  and  its  array  of  pegs  whereon  to  hang 
the  simple  and  more  necessary  pieces  of  wearing  apparel. 

As  Charlotte  emerged  again,  attired  in  her  nainsook 
gown  that  ended  in  decent  frills  at  neck  and  wrist,  the 
Judge  in  his  turn  strode  into  his  sanctuary.  He  was  in 
search  of  one  of  those  old-fashioned  garments  wrhich  Char 
lotte  had  been  so  reluctant  to  lend  Loring  on  the  occasion 
of  his  first  visit. 

While  she  wraited  for  him  to  appear  again,  she  sat  down 
at  a  little  table  near  one  of  the  windows,  and  began  arrang 
ing  what  she  called  her  "night-basket."  She  was  the  most 
methodical  and  orderly  of  souls,  and  into  this  little  ham 
per  went  her  watch,  her  handkerchief,  a  bit  of  "camphor- 
ice"  for  her  lips,  and  a  box  of  matches. 

The  moon  was  at  its  full  again,  and  as  she.  sat,  sorting 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  325 

these  familiar  articles,  she  could  see  the  white  blur  of 
Sophy's  gown  in  one  of  the  hammocks,  and  hear  the  soft 
undertone  of  voices,  as  she  and  her  lover  talked  together. 

"Just  run  along,  you  and  Joe,  Charlotte,  dear,"  Sophy 
had  said.  "We'll  come  in  by  the  time  you're  ready  to  put 
out  the  lights. ' ' 

"And  here,"  reflected  Charlotte,  frowning  towards  the 
hammocks,  "  it 's  eleven  o  'clock,  and  Joe  and  I  nearly  ready 
for  bed,  and  she  isn  't  even  thinking  of  coming  in ! " 

Her  mood  was  such  as  in  a  vigorous,  old-fashioned 
mother  means  a  sound  spanking  for  the  offending  child. 
And  Charlotte  felt  that  in  some  sort  Sophy  was  her  child, 
and  dearly  would  she  have  liked  to  spank  her. 

Here  Judge  Macon  came  forth  again,  looking  somewhat 
like  the  sheeted  dead  in  the  extreme  length  of  his  linen  gar 
ment,  and  armed  with  a  large,  palmetto  fan.  He  drew  up 
a  rocking-chair,  and  glancing  out  of  the  window  towards 
the  culprits,  said  just  a  trifle  sheepishly,  to  his  wife 's  acute 
ears: 

"Let's  give  'em  as  long  as  we  can,  old  lady.  Lovers  on 
an  old  Virginia  lawn  in  the  moonlight!  It's  enough  to 
soften  the  cockles  of  a  stoic 's  heart. ' ' 

Charlotte  unbendingly  smoothed  out  a  bit  of  tin-foil  and 
wrapped  the  piece  of  camphor-ice  in  it. 

' '  The  cockles  of  the  heart,  and  the  apple  of  the  eye  have 
always  seemed  absurd  figures  of  speech  to  me,"  she  then 
remarked,  putting  the  unguent  into  her  basket. 

Judge  Macon  tried  to  take  one  of  her  hands,  but  she 
withdrew  it  and  firmly  wound  up  her  watch  before  wrap 
ping  it  in  her  handkerchief  and  laying  it  beside  the  cam 
phor-ice. 

"Come,  old  lady,"  wheedled  her  softer-natured  mate, 
* '  what 's  the  matter  ?  Do  you  really  foresee  disaster  ? ' ' 

"Joe,"  replied  Charlotte,  clasping  her  hands  over  the 
handle  of  the  little  basket,  and  looking  sternly  at  him, 
"can  you,  a  man  who  has  sat  on  the  Virginia  bench  for 
over  twenty  years,  seriously  ask  me  such  a  question  ? ' ' 

"Why  the  Virginia  bench,  particularly,  honey?"  asked 
he,  and  from  under  his  shaggy  brows  came  a  droll  gleam. 

But  Charlotte  was  not  to  be  wheedled. 

"I  merely  mentioned  your  office,"  said  she,  "to  recall 
to  you  that  as  a  Judge  you've  had  more  opportunity  than 
most  to  realise  the  rarity  of  happy  marriages." 


326  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

The  Judge  in  his  unofficial  capacity  whistled  softly  at 
this  Addisonian  language,  but  Charlotte  went  on  undis 
turbed. 

"I  ask  you,"  she  continued,  "as  a  Judge — what  chances 
do  you  consider  that  those  two" — she  waved  one  hand  to 
wards  the  hammocks — "have  of  real  happiness?" 

Her  husband  rocked  for  a  moment  before  replying,  fan 
ning  himself  with  the  round,  yellow  disk  that  glistened  in 
the  moonlight  (Charlotte  had  blown  out  the  candle  for 
fear  of  midges). 

At  last  he  said  seriously : 

' '  You  married  me,  my  dear,  and  I  am  sixteen  years  older 
than  you,  yet  I  think  we've  been  pretty  happy." 

"Oh,  how  like  a  man  that  is!"  cried  Charlotte,  jumping 
up  in  her  exasperation,  so  that  the  carefully  packed  little 
hamper  was  upset,  and  the  two  white-clad  figures  had  to 
grovel  for  its  contents  on  all  fours  in  the  moonlight.  As 
Charlotte 's  curly  head  came  near  his  during  this  operation, 
the  Judge  promptly  kissed  it,  and  Charlotte,  much  discon 
certed,  scrambled  to  her  feet  again,  exclaiming:  "Joe! 
how  can  you  be  so  silly  at  our  time  of  life ! " 

But  the  Judge  only  laughed,  and  pulled  her  down  on 
his  linen  clad  knees,  demure  frills,  "night-basket"  and 
all. 

"See  here,  madam,"  he  demanded,  "what  do  you  mean 
by  saying  I'm  'like  a  man'?" 

Charlotte  laughed  in  spite  of  herself. 

"I  meant  it  was  like  a  man  to  take  the  very  reverse  of 
Sophy's  case  as  an  example,"  she  said,  putting  her  arm 
about  his  neck  as  they  rocked  gently  together,  and  rubbing 
her  cheek  against  his.  "Don't  you  see?  It's  quite,  quite 
different  with  us.  Why  your  being  my  elder,  by  so  many 
years,  only  makes  me  look  up  to  you  ..." 

'  Look  up  to  me ! '  "  echoed  he,  with  a  burst  of  Homeric 
mirth.  Charlotte  clapped  her  hand  over  his  mouth. 
"Sssh!"  she  warned.  "They'll  hear  you.  They'll  think 
we're  laughing  at  them." 

"Poor  things,"  said  he,  sobered.  "It  seems  mighty  sad 
to  think  of  two  lovers  being  afraid  of  being  laughed  at." 

"It  is  sad,"  said  Charlotte.  "You  think  I'm  cross  about 
it,  Joe,  but  I  could  cry  about  it  this  minute." 

She  dropped  her  head  on  his  shoulder,  and  her  other  arm 
went  round  his  neck. 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  327 

' '  Don 't, ' '  said  the  Judge  softly.  ' '  Don 't  you  cry,  honey, 
whatever  you  do." 

Charlotte  from  her  refuge  in  his  strong  neck  spoke  pas 
sionately.  Her  warm  breath  tickled  him  almost  beyond 
endurance,  but  he  held  her  and  suffered  in  silence  with  the 
true  martyr  spirit  of  the  husband  who  is  born  and  not 
made. 

"Oh,  Joe,"  she  murmured  vehemently;  "you're  not  a 
woman,  so  you  can't  see  it  all  as  I  see  it.  Now,  perhaps, 
it's  all  right,  but  in  a  few  years  .  .  .  just  a  few  years  .  .  . 
Oh,  my  poor  Sophy!  The  grey  hairs  .  .  .  will  come  .  .  . 
then  wrinkles  .  .  .  Little  by  little,  little  by  little,  there, 
under  his  eyes — his  hateful  young  eyes — she  will  grow  old. 
She  will  look  like  his  mother  when  she 's  fifty  and  he 's  only 
forty-five!" 

"No,  no,  lady-bird,  really  you  exaggerate!"  slipped  in 
the  Judge. 

"This  can't  be  exaggerated!"  said  Charlotte.  "It  can't 
be —  Shakespeare  couldn  't  exaggerate  it ! " 

"He's  got  a  right  smart  gift  that  way,  honey,"  slipped 
in  the  Judge  again. 

Charlotte  didn't  hear  him.  She  sat  up,  much  to  his  re 
lief,  and  putting  her  hands  on  his  shoulders  looked  at  him 
solemnly. 

"Joe,"  she  said,  "you're  a  man,  so  you  don't  know 
about  one  of  the  worst  tragedies  in  a  woman's  life — the 
tragedy  of  the  hand-glass ! ' ' 

"The  what?"  asked  her  husband. 

"The  hand-glass,  Joe.  That  little  innocent  looking  bit 
of  silver-framed  glass  that  you  think  I  only  use  to  do  my 
hair  with.  Oh,  some  great  poet  ought  to  write  an  ode  to 
a  woman  with  her  hand-glass!  Talk  of  'Familiars,'  of 
'Devils' — there's  no  Imp  out  of  Hell  ..." 

"Charlotte!"  cried  her  astounded  husband. 

"I  said  out — of — Hell,"  repeated  she  firmly — "there's 
no  Imp  so  cunning,  so  malicious,  so  brutal  as  a  woman's 
hand-glass.  First,  like  all  devils,  it  begins  by  flattering 
her — when  she's  young.  Then  suddenly,  one  day,  after 
long  years  of  cunning  flattery — suddenly — like  that !  .  .  . " 
She  snapped  her  fingers  in  his  still  more  surprised  face. 
.  .  .  "Like  that! — the  hateful  thing  tells  her  the  truth — 
that  she  is  growing  old!  Oh,  just  a  shadow  here — a  line 
there — the  first  grey  hair Nothing  really — only — from 


328  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

that  day,  on  and  on  and  on  relentlessly,  the  message,  the 
odious  message  never  stops !  Oh,  if  anything  ought  to  be 
buried  with  a  woman,  like  her  wedding  ring,  it  ought  to 
be  her  hand-glass — for  it's  been  just  as  much  a  part  of  joy 
and  pain  as  the  ring  has ! ' ' 

She  stopped,  out  of  breath,  and  her  husband,  rather  sub 
dued  yet  trying  to  make  light  of  it,  hugged  her  and  said : 
"Seems  to  me,  Sophy  oughtn't  to  claim  all  the  laurels. 
Seems  to  me  you  're  a  right  elegant  little  poetess  yourself ! ' ' 

Charlotte  extricated  herself  from  this  frankly  marital 
embrace,  and  pushing  the  curls  out  of  her  eyes  went  on, 
too  excited  and  in  earnest  to  heed  this  funny  little  compli 
ment. 

''That's  what  I  see  for  Sophy!"  she  said.  "The  tragedy 
of  the  hand-glass — the  tragedy  of  love  in  her  case.  For 
that  boy  can't  love  her  soul  and  mind  as  he  ought  to — 
and  what  soul  he's  got  she's  given  him — for  the  time  being. 
He's  just  a  walking  mirror — a  reflection  of  her.  Sophy 
doesn't  dream  it — nor  he — of  course.  But  I  can  see  it. 
Love  does  that  sometimes.  Oh,  you  needn't  grin,  Joe! — 
I  watch  life  though  I  do  live  in  the  country  the  year  round. 
Sophy's  just  a  woman  Narcissus.  She's  in  love  with  her 
own  reflection  in  Morris  Loring.  And  some  day  she'll 
want  to  draw  him  from  that  dream-pool.  Then  she'll  find 
empty  wetness  in  her  hands  .  .  .  just  tears  ..." 

She  broke  off  almost  in  tears  herself.  Suddenly  she 
caught  her  husband 's  head  to  her  breast : 

"Oh,"  she  cried,  "I  do  thank  God  that  you  are  bald, 
Joe,  and  sixteen  years  older  than  I  am ! ' ' 

"Lord  love  us!"  exclaimed  the  Judge,  bursting  into 
inextinguishable  mirth  this  time,  "I  reckon  that's  the 
funniest  prayer  of  thanksgiving  that  ever  went  up  to  the 
Throne  of  Grace!" 


XII 

IN  the  verandah  of  her  cottage  at  Nahant,  where  she  al 
ways  passed  the  months  of  May  and  June,  Mrs.  Loring, 
Morris's  mother,  sat  re-reading  the  letter  in  which  he  told 
her  of  his  engagement  to  Mrs.  Chesney. 

There  had  been  a  storm  the  night  before,  and  the  sea 
made  a  marvellous,  heroic  music  among  the. rocks.     Mrs. 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  329 

Loring  laid  the  open  letter  on  her  knee,  and  her  light, 
bright  blue,  short-sighted  eyes  gazed  wistfully  towards 
the  sound.  Storms  both  in  Nature  and  in  human  passions, 
when  distant  enough,  had  always  possessed  a  strange 
charm  for  her,  the  charm  of  printed  perils  to  minds  con- 
genitally  timorous.  She  knew  Sophy's  history  and  had 
read  her  poems  when  they  first  came  out,  with  that  same 
sense  of  one  enjoying  a  tempest  in  mid-ocean  from  the 
staunch  deck  of  a  liner.  In  her  case  temperament  was  the 
liner — though  she  had  always  felt  in  some  inmost  recess 
of  her  being,  known  only  to  herself  and  her  Creator,  that, 
given  the  circumstances,  she,  too,  might  have  been  a  centre 
of  tumult.  And  sometimes,  gazing  from  the  safe,  close- 
curtained  windows  of  her  present  personality — the  result 
of  many  careful,  cautiously  repressed  years — she  wondered 
if  the  mistake  makers,  the  convention  breakers,  had  not 
the  best  of  it  after  all?  Repentance  must  be  a  wonderful 
emotion — that  upheaving,  ecstatic  repentance  that  follows 
big  sins.  So  unconsciously  and  typically  New  England 
was  Grace  Loring,  that  she  could  not  think  of  splendid 
crime  without  following  it  up  in  her  mind  by  repentance 
even  more  gorgeous. 

As  Mrs.  Loring  sat  there,  with  her  son's  letter  on  her 
lap,  her  sister,  Mrs.  Charles  Horton,  came  out  of  the  house 
with  a  novel  in  her  hand  and  joined  her. 

"Still  brooding  over  Morry's  letter,  Grace?"  Mrs.  Hor 
ton  asked  in  a  brusque  voice,  sitting  down  beside  her. 

Mrs.  Loring  withdrew  her  vague,  handsome  eyes  from 
the  sea,  and  looked  quietly  and  directly  at  her  sister. 

"I'm  not  brooding,  Eleanor,"  she  said  gently. 

"Well,  what  then?"  asked  Mrs.  Horton. 

Mrs.  Loring  glanced  at  the  letter  through  her  face-d-main 
as  though  consulting  it,  then  said  in  the  same  tranquil 
tone: 

"I  think  I  was  rather  admiring  them  both." 

"What  rubbish  you  talk  sometimes,  my  dear  Grace!" 
exclaimed  her  sister  explosively. 

Mrs.  Horton  was  short,  brune,  and  rather  plump.  She 
had  small,  chestnut-brown  eyes,  and  rough,  strong,  crinkly 
dark  hair.  She  was  in  every  way  the  opposite  of  her  tall, 
distinguished,  rather  hushed  sister.  Her  manner  of  think 
ing  and  speaking  was  blunt  and  straightforward.  Mrs. 
Horton  had  no  half-tones — she  was  like  some  effective  na- 


330  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

tional  flag,  all  clearly  defined  blocks  of  frank,  crude  colour. 

"Are  you  going  to  write  and  remonstrate  with  that 
young  fool,  or  are  you  going  to  sit  by  and  see  him  smash 
his  life  like  crockery?"  she  said  abruptly. 

Charles  Horton  had  been  a  Californian  and  a  man  of 
exuberant  vitality  and  speech.  His  wife,  who  had  loved 
him  and  admired  him  for  every  contrast  to  the  contained 
people  among  whom  she  had  been  brought  up,  had  adopted 
something  of  his  vigorous  way  of  expressing  himself. 

"Are  you?"  she  repeated. 

It  was  not  Mrs.  Loring's  way  to  evade  things,  but  she 
was  so  really  interested  in  Eleanor's  point  of  view  that 
instead  of  answering  this  question  she  said : 

"What  are  your  reasons  for  inferring  that  Morris  is 
ruining  his  life?" 

Mrs.  Horton  tossed  her  book  aside,  and  clasped  her  crisp, 
capable  looking  little  brown  hands  about  one  knee. 

"  'Reasons'!"  said  she.  "Aren't  facts  enough  for  you? 
Isn't  a  love-sick  boy  of  twenty-six  who  marries  a  woman 
years  older  pretty  well  smashing  things  up  for  himself?" 

"Sophy  Chesney  is  only  thirty,  Eleanor." 

"Oh,  what  a  hair-splitter  you  are,  Grace!  Four  years' 
difference  on  the  wrong  side — the  woman's  side,  is  a  big 
chasm  .  .  .  say  what  you  will." 

"There  have  been  very  happy  marriages  of  that  sort, 
Eleanor,  and  with  far  greater  difference  in  age.  There 
was  Miss  Thackeray's  marriage  with  Mr.  Ritchie — 

"Oh,  do  go  on!"  said  Mrs.  Horton,  with  an  outward 
snuffing  of  contemptuous  breath.  "Give  us  some  more 
specimens  from  literature — George  Eliot  and  Mr.  Cross 
for  example." 

Mrs.  Loring  put  up  her  face-d-main  again  and  looked 
curiously  at  her  sister. 

"Why  are  you  so  vexed,  Eleanor?"  she  asked  mildly. 
"After  all,  it's  a  brilliant  marriage  for  Morris  in  a  way — 
Sophy  Chesney  is  a  very  distinguished  woman.  Plad  you 
...  er  ...  plans  for  Morris?" 

Mrs.  Horton  blushed.  She  had  thought  that  Morris 
might  marry  her  step-daughter  Belinda  some  day,  but  she 
had  never  admitted  this  even  to  herself.  Grace's  random 
shot  hit  home.  She  retorted  rather  gruffly : 

"Can't  a  woman  take  an  interest  in  her  own  nephew, 
without  being  accused  of  scheming?" 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  331 

"Oh  .  .  .  'scheming'  .  .  .  My  dear  Eleanor!"  pro 
tested  her  sister. 

"The  fact  is,"  pursued  Mrs.  Horton,  "I  take  the  com 
mon-sense  view  of  the  case  and  you  the  sentimental  one. 
Linda!  .  .  .  What  on  earth  have  you  been  doing  to  look 
so  hot?" 

This  last  sentence  was  addressed  to  her  step-daughter, 
Belinda  Horton,  who  came  racing  up  the  verandah  steps, 
her  blowze  of  red-brown  hair  blowing  out  behind  her,  and 
a  tennis  racquet  in  her  hand.  Belinda  was  a  triumphantly 
beautiful  hoyden  of  sixteen,  despite  a  slight  powdering 
of  freckles  and  a  tiny  silvery  scar  through  one  raven  black 
eyebrow,  the  result  of  trying  to  equal  a  boy  cousin  on  the 
trapeze  when  she  was  nine  years  old.  Her  great,  rich, 
challenging  red-brown  eyes,  and  her  defiant  yet  sweet- 
tempered  mouth,  the  up-curve  of  her  round  chin,  the  tilt 
of  her  nose,  the  way  her  head  sat  on  her  shoulders  as 
though  some  artist-god  had  flung  it  there  with  careless 
mastery,  like  a  flower — her  lovely,  long,  still-growing  body 
which  had  never  known  the  "awkward  age" — all  these 
things  made  even  the  most  collected  gasp  a  little  when 
Belinda  first  rushed  upon  their  sight. 

She  now  dropped  upon  the  steps,  near  Mrs.  Loring, 
pushed  the  sleeves  of  her  blouse  still  higher  on  her  cream- 
white  arms,  and  flourishing  the  racquet  at  her  step-mother, 
said  in  the  rich,  throaty  voice  of  a  pigeon  in  the  sun : 

"What  do  I  look  as  if  I'd  been  doing?  Playing  the 
organ  ? ' ' 

"Linda!    Don't  talk  in  that  slangy  way." 

Belinda  showed  her  teeth,  beautifully  white  if  a  trifle 
too  large,  in  the  frankest  grin. 

"  'Playing  the  organ'  isn't  slang,  Mater." 

Mrs.  Horton  returned  her  look  severely. 

"It's  the  way  you  say  things  that  make  them  sound  like 
slang — isn't  it,  Grace?"  she  ended,  appealing  to  her  sister. 

Mrs.  Loring  smiled  very  kindly. 

"It's  the  fashion  to  be  slangy  nowadays,  Eleanor." 

Belinda's  eyes  shot  garnet  sparkles  at  her  mother.  She 
patted  Mrs.  Loring 's  blue  batiste  skirt  approvingly  with 
her  racquet. 

''That's  one  for  you,  Mater!"  she  cried  joyously,  then  to 
Mrs.  Loring,  "You're  always  perfectly  bully  to  me,  Aunty 
Grace!" 


332 

The  idea  of  applying  the  term  "bully"  to  that  over- 
refined,  softly  majestic  figure  in  its  cane  chair  would  have 
abashed  any  one  less  daring  than  Belinda.  But  Mrs.  Lor- 
ing  seemed  not  to  mind  in  the  least.  She  knew  that  Be 
linda  was  "bad  form."  Belinda  knew  it  herself.  "Some 
people  are  born  '  bad  form, '  ' '  she  used  to  say  with  her 
wide,  lovely  grin.  "That's  me." 

In  tapping  her  aunt's  skirt  with  her  racquet,  she  had 
dislodged  Morris's  letter.  It  slipped  to  the  floor  beside  her, 
and  lifting  it  to  hand  it  back,  she  recognised  his  writing. 

"Hullo!"  she  cried.  "What's  Morry  writing  such  a 
screed  about  ?  Pie  hates  writing  long  letters  like  the  devil. ' ' 

"Belinda!"  from  Mrs.  Ilorton. 

"All  right,  Mater— not  till  next  time." 

Then  she  turned  again  to  her  aunt,  frankly  curious. 

"What  is  he  writing  about.  Aunt  Grace?  Not  in  a 
scrape,  I  hope — the  admirable  Morry!" 

"He  wrote  to  announce  his  engagement,  Belinda,"  said 
Mrs.  Loring. 

Belinda  sat  stock  still  for  a  moment.    Then  she  said : 

"Who  is  it?" 

"A  Mrs.  Chesney — a  very  unusual  woman.  She  wrote 
a  remarkable  book  once  under  her  maiden  name,  Sophy 
Taliaferro." 

Belinda  sprung  to  her  feet. 

"Why,  I've  read  some  poems  by  a  Sophy  Taliaferro," 
she  exclaimed.  "Red-hot  stuff  they  were,  too!" 

"Linda!  I  forbid  you  to  speak  in  that  way,"  said  her 
mother. 

' '  All  right,  Mater — but  they  were  red-h —  .  .  .  All  right, 
I  won't  then.  But,  Aunt  Grace,  it  couldn't  be  that  Sophy 
Taliaferro — she  must  be  a  hundred  ! ' ' 

"No — only  thirty,"  said  Mrs.  Loring,  smiling  again. 

"My  Gawd!"  cried  Belinda,  pronouncing  the  sacred 
name  grotesquely  so  as  to  take  off  the  edge  of  her  irrever 
ence.  She  dropped  back  upon  the  steps,  and  sat  staring 
open-mouthed  at  her  aunt.  ' '  He 's  gone  nutty ! ' '  she  added, 
closing  her  lips  with  a  snap.  Then  she  sprang  up  again 
and  stamped  her  foot. 

"You've  got  to  save  him!"  she  cried,  tears  of  rage  in 
her  eyes.  "It  isn't  fair! — She's  roped  him  in! — Morry  is 
just  at  the  age  to  do  such  rotten  foolishness! — Thank  God, 
this  is  a  Land  of  Divorce! " 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  333 

"Belinda!" 

"Yes — thank  God  for  it! — And  I  wish  trial  marriage 
was  here,  too ! ' ' 

"Belinda!" 

"Oh,  stuff,  Mater!  Haven't  you  read  Ellen  Key— she'd 
make  you  sit  up ! " 

Mrs.  Horton  got  up,  went  to  the  girl,  and  grasped  her 
firmly  by  the  shoulder.  She  was  a  determined  little  woman 
when  roused  and  Belinda  recognised  the  expression  in  her 
eyes.  She  looked  up  at  her,  sulky  but  silent  for  the  mo 
ment. 

' '  Listen  to  me, ' '  said  her  step-mother.  ' '  I  will  not  have 
you  talking  in  this  manner.  How  dare  you  read  Ellen 
Key,  and — and  poems  that  I  've  never  given  you  ? ' ' 

Belinda 's  radiant  grin  shone  out  again  in  spite  of  her. 

"Oh,  cut  it  out,  Mater,"  she  said  amiably.  "I  hooked 
Roderick  Random  and  Boccaccio  when  I  was  twelve — but 
you  needn't  worry.  They  made  me  sick — what  I  could 
understand  of  them.  Yes,  Mater — I  Ve  naturally  got  what 
they  call  a  'clean  mind' — nastiness  never  would  attract  me. 
But  this  is  a  new  age  beginning,  and  a  new  sort  of  girl  is 
beginning,  too,  and  she  wants  to  know  what's  what  about 
everything,  and — I'm  her!"  she  wound  up  defiantly. 

Mrs.  Loring  had  put  up  her  face-a-main,  and  earnestly 
regarded  the  girl 's  face  during  this  speech.  She  had  again 
that  sensation  of  watching  an  interesting  tempest  from  safe 
decks. 

"I  shall  send  you  to  school  in  France  this  winter,"  said 
Mrs.  Horton  grimly.  "If  you're  so  bent  on  acquiring 
knowledge  it  shall  be  given  to  you  in  ordered  doses." 

"All  right,  Mater!"  said  Belinda.  Then  she  flung  her 
racquet  viciously  on  the  steps,  and  groaned,  thrusting  her 
hands  in  the  thick,  red-brown  clusters  on  either  side  of 
her  face : 

' '  French  schools  or  not,  Morry  is  a  damn  fool ! ' '  said  she. 

Then  Mrs.  Horton  rose  in  all  the  severity  of  step- 
motherhood. 

"You  shall  go  to  bed  this  instant!"  said  she,  pointing. 
"You  shall  have  only  soup  for  dinner.  You  shall  not 
leave  these  grounds  for  a  week.  Nor  play  tennis — nor  go 
sailing." 

"I  couldn't  very  well  go  sailing  in  the  grounds,"  said 
Belinda,  with  inextinguishable  pertness.  But  she  rose,  and 


334  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

went  upstairs  to  bed  as  the  maternal  finger  indicated,  mak 
ing  hideous,  gargoylish  faces  all  the  way,  which  she  did  not 
dare  turn  to  deliver. 

And  once  alone  in  her  bedroom,  having  slammed  the 
door  so  that  the  cottage  jarred  with  it,  she  flung  herself 
face  down  upon  the  floor,  and  sobbed  furiously.  With  one 
clenched  hand  she  beat  the  matting  near  her  head.  She 
strangled  with  this  violent  sobbing.  Her  whole  body 
heaved  with  it. 

"0  God  .  .  .  punish  him!"  choked  Belinda.  "0  God 
.  .  .  help  me  to  get  even  with  him  some  day  .  .  .  some 
how  .  .  ." 

She  rose  after  a  half-hour  of  this  frantic  weeping;  and, 
hiccoughing  with  spent  grief,  like  a  passionate  child,  went 
and  unlocked  a  little  drawer.  She  took  out  a  photograph 
of  Morris.  Under  it  was  written  in  her  black,  loopy  hand 
writing,  "My  Hero  and  my  Love."  She  gazed  a  moment 
at  his  face,  all  distorted  and  magnified  by  her  tears;  then 
she  deliberately  spat  upon  it,  tore  it  in  pieces,  and  ground 
them  under  her  heel.  "I  hate  you  ...  I  hate  you  .  .  . 
Beast!  .  .  .  Pig!  .  .  .  Liar!"  choked  the  little  fury.  All 
at  once,  down  she  flopped,  her  skirt  making  a  "cheese" 
about  her,  and  gathered  the  desecrated  morsels  to  her  lips. 

"Oh  ...  oh  ..."  she  moaned.  "My  heart  is  broken 
...  it's  broken  ..." 

Balling  the  fragments  in  her  fist,  and  still  seated  on  the 
floor,  she  shook  her  fist  with  the  rags  of  love  in  it,  at  the 
empty  air. 

"I'll  get  even  with  you,  Morry  ..."  she  said  between 
her  teeth,  as  though  he  were  present  in  person.  "I'll  get 
even  with  you  ...  if  I  have  to  wait  till  I'm  thirty!  .  .  . 
Oh,  7  know  you!  .  .  .  You  dared  to  kiss  me  .  .  .  like  that 
..."  Her  face  flamed  at  the  memory.  "And  then  .  .  . 
in  less  than  a  year  ...  oh!  ...  But  if  you  tired  of  me 
.  .  .  after  just  one  kiss  .  .  .  you'll  tire  of  her  .  .  .  after 
some  hundreds.  .  .  .  Then,  Mr.  Morry  ..."  Her  beauti 
ful  face  was  quite  savage — a  woman's  jealous  face  under 
the  childish  mop  of  hair — "then  I'll  be  waiting!  In  two 
years  I'll  be  eighteen  ...  I'll  give  you  just  two  years 
.  .  .  then  my  innings  begin  ..." 

Belinda  knew  well  that  she  was  beautiful.  She  had 
known  it  supremely  when  she  tempted  Morris  to  kiss  her — 
for  she  had  tempted  him — but  then  she  loved  him  wildly. 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  335 

She  was  morally  a  little  Oriental — with  all  her  passions  at 
white  heat  though  she  was  but  a  school-girl.  She  had 
thought  that  his  kiss  meant  that  he  loved  her  in  like  wise, 
lie  had  been  sorry  the  moment  the  kiss  was  over.  But 
then — she  had  really  tempted  him  beyond  endurance,  and 
he  had  always  thought  she  had  the  most  kissable  mouth  in 
the  world.  Besides,  just  at  that  psychological  moment  he 
happened  to  be  bored  to  desperation.  He  had  been  spend 
ing  the  two  weeks  at  Nahant  that  his  mother  always  ex 
acted  from  him  in  the  summer.  It  was  the  only  thing  that 
she  ever  did  exact  from  him,  but  they  always  seemed  in 
terminable.  Then  had  come  Belinda,  tempting  him  with 
her  passionate,  sparkling  eyes,  and  the  desireful  red  fruit 
of  her  mouth  .  .  .  fruit  cleft  for  kisses  .  .  . 

He  had  hurried  away  the  next  day.  He  was  honestly 
ashamed  of  that  sensual  kiss  laid  on  a  school-girl's  lips. 
She  was  only  fifteen  then.  He  raged  at  himself  and  at  her, 
too.  "Kitten  Cleopatra,"  he  called  her  in  his  thought. 
* '  Amorous  little  devil — Jove !  I  pity  her  husband  ..." 

For  he  never  realised  for  an  instant  that  the  girl  was 
really  in  love  with  him. 


XIII 

WHEN  Lady  "Wychcote  received  Sophy's  letter,  she  was 
breakfasting  at  Dynehurst,  alone  with  Gerald.  She  went 
very  red  under  her  light,  morning  rouge,  then  pale.  After 
some  bitter  remarks,  through  which  her  son  sat  in  silence, 
she  said : 

"I  shall  send  for  James  Surtees. "  Mr.  Surtees  was  the 
family  solicitor.  "I  am  sure  that  as  the  probable  heir  we 
have  some  legal  control  over  the  boy,  in  a  case  like  this." 

Gerald  rose  decidedly. 

"I  shouldn't  use  it  if  I  had  it,"  he  said. 

His  mother  rose,  too. 

"I  should,"  she  said  curtly. 

They  were  standing  face  to  face.  Gerald 's  eyes  wavered 
first.  He  looked  out  of  window  over  the  rolling  green  of 
the  Park  to  where  the  smoke  from  the  mining  town  blurred 
the  pale  horizon.  Then  he  looked  back  at  his  mother  again. 
It  was  a  gentle  but  bold  look  for  him. 

"I  wouldn't  if  I  were  you,  mother,"  he  said  gravely. 


336  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

"No.  There  are  many  things  that  you  leave  undone, 
which  would  be  done  if  you  were  I,"  she  said  in  a  harsh 
voice,  turning  away.  "I  shall  write  to  Surtees  this  after 
noon." 

But  Lady  Wychcote  did  not  find  her  interview  with  Mr. 
Surtees  very  consoling.  He  replied  to  her  most  pressing 
questions  by  quoting  from  that  Guardianship  of  Infants 
Act,  which  seemed  to  her  to  have  been  passed  chiefly  for 
her  annoyance.  The  meticulous  legal  phraseology  of  the 
quoted  sentences  so  got  on  her  nerves  that  it  was  all  she 
could  do  to  refrain  from  being  rude  to  the  solicitor.  Mr. 
Surtees  read  from  slips  that  he  had  brought  with  him  in 
reply  to  her  urgent  letter,  asking  whether  in  such  an  in 
stance  as  this  the  Court  might  not  be  willing  to  appoint  her 
as  co-guardian  with  her  grandson's  mother.  " .  .  .  When 
no  guardian  has  been  appointed  by  the  father,  or  if  the 
guardian  or  guardians  appointed  by  the  father  is  or  are 
dead,  or  refuses  or  refuse  to  act,  the  Court  may,  if  it  shall 
think  fit,  from  time  to  time  appoint  a  guardian  or  guar 
dians  to  act  jointly  with  the  mother." 

"Well  .  .  .  and  in  such  a  case  as  this?  .  .  .  where  my 
grandson  will  grow  up  with  an  American  step-father?" 
she  had  asked  eagerly. 

"But  your  ladyship  told  me  that  Mrs.  Chesney  agreed 
to  have  her  son  educated  in  England  ? ' ' 

"Yes,"  she  admitted  impatiently;  "but  suppose  that 
she  should  change  her  mind?" 

"I  think  that  we  should  have  to  await  that  event." 

"But  my  ..."  (Lady  Wychcote  had  almost  said  "my 
good  man"  in  her  extreme  irritation.)  "But  my  dear  Mr. 
Surtees,  who  can  tell  what  influence  this  .  .  .  this  Ameri 
can  step-father  may  have  on  the  child — even  in  a  year?" 

"I  venture  to  suggest  that  your  ladyship  is  over-ap 
prehensive,"  said  Mr.  Surtees.  "From  my  personal  ac 
quaintance  with  Mrs.  Chesney,  I  feel  assured  that  she  will 
allow  no  one  to  influence  her  son  in  any  way  that  could  be 
harmful.  But,"  he  continued,  "if  by  any  unfortunate 
chance  ...  er  ...  difficulties  of  ...  of  this  kind  should 
occur — the  Court  will  generally  act  in  the  way  that  it  con 
siders  most  beneficial  for  the  interest  and  welfare  of  the 
infant." 

"Then,  in  case  the  mother's  guardianship  proved  to  be 
unsatisfactory,  the  Court  would  interfere?" 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  337 

"I  think  there  is  no  doubt  about  that." 
With  this,  for  the  present,  Lady  Wychcote  had  to  be 
content. 

In  the  meantime  Sophy 's  second  wedding-day  was  draw 
ing  near.  Mrs.  Loring  was  to  come  to  Sweet- Waters  for 
the  marriage,  but  there  were  to  be  no  other  guests.  She 
arrived  two  days  before.  Every  one  liked  her.  And  Bobby 
approved  of  her.  "I  like  Mr.  Loring 's  muvvah  .  .  ."he 
told  Sophy.  His  tone  implied  deep  reticences  on  the  sub 
ject  of  Mrs.  Loring 's  son. 

That  evening,  as  Sophy  bent  over  his  crib  to  kiss  him 
good-night,  he  held  her  face  down  to  his  and  said: 

''Muvvah,  do  you  love  Mr.  Loring  more  than  me?" 

Sophy  dropped  to  her  knees  and  caught  him  in  her 
arms. 

''No,  darling!  No,  no!  I  love  you  both — not  one  better 
than  the  other." 

Bobby  clung  fast  to  her.    Then  he  whispered : 

"S'posin'  you  had  to  choose  'right  hand — lef  hand'?" 

"My  precious!  People  don't  choose  other  people  that 
way.  You  know,  Bobby  darling,  it's  with  hearts  like  the 
sky  and  the  stars.  There's  room  for  all  the  stars  in  the 
sky — there's  room  for  all  sorts  of  different  loves  in  one 
heart." 

Bobby  reflected  a  moment.    Then  he  sighed. 

"I  reckon  my  heart  ain't  very  big,"  he  murmured.  "It 
couldn't  hold  all  that.  I  reckon  my  heart's  just  fulled  up 
with  you,  muvvah.  I  reckon  it 's  only  got  one  star  in  it. ' ' 

Sophy  crushed  him  to  her.  She  kissed  him  in  a  passion 
of  remorse  for  his  pathetic  jealousy.  Tears  choked  her. 
She  held  him  until  she  thought  that  he  had  fallen  asleep. 
As  she  was  stealing  from  the  room,  a  clear  little  voice  called 
after  her : 

"If  it  was  'right  hand — lef  hand'  with  anybody  an'  you 
— I  'd  choose  you,  muvvah ! ' ' 

She  rushed  back  again,  and  this  time  she  stayed  with  him 
long  after  he  was  really  asleep. 

They  were  married  and  gone.  Charlotte  stood  blowing 
her  little  nose  fiercely — sustained  in  her  apprehensive  grief 
only  by  Mammy  Nan.  The  Judge  had  driven  to  the  station 
with  Mrs.  Loring. 


338  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

"What  do  you  think  really,  Mammy?"  she  got  out  at 
last.  "Do  you  think  Miss  Sophy  will  be  happy?" 

Mammy  Nan,  who  was  already  taking  off  her  gala  apron 
and  folding  it  neatly  for  some  future  occasion,  grunted 
noncommittally.  Then  she  snuffled  sharply.  She  had  been 
crying,  too,  but  she  scorned  to  blow  her  nose  openly  like 
"Miss  Cha'lt."  Finally  she  said  in  a  colourless  voice: 

"What  Miss  Sophy  mought  call  happy,  /  moughtn't  call 
happy. ' ' 

"How  do  you  mean,  Mammy?" 

"AVell'um,  Miss  Cha'lt,"  replied  the  old  negress  dryly, 
"  I  is  alluz  ben  hev  my  'pinion  'bout  dat  Sary  in  dee  Bible 
a-honin'  a'ter  a  baby  at  her  age.  Hit  sho'  wuz  a  darin' 
thing  tuh  do.  But  hit  'pears  like  gittin'  hit  made  her 
happy.  T'ouldn't  'a'  made  me  happy — no,  ma'am!" 

She  pinned  the  folded  apron  firmly  together  with  her 
"Sunday"  brooch,  taking  both  it  and  the  unaccustomed 
collar  off  at  once  with  a  sigh  of  relief. 

"Now  seein'  as  a  young  huzbun'  is  wuss  trouble  dan  a 
young  baby,  how  I  gwine  prophesy  'bout  Miss  Sophy's 
happ'ness?"  she  concluded. 

The  magic  spell  held  beautifully  all  through  those  bridal 
wanderings.  There  was  a  real  awe  at  the  base  of  Loring's 
love  for  Sophy.  Her  creative  gift  and  the  fact  of  her 
initiation  into  life's  darker  mysteries,  had  a  strange  and 
subduing  charm  for  him.  His  bridegroom  mood  was  still 
Endymion's.  This  reverence,  as  for  a  being  familiar  with 
worlds  unknown  to  him,  lent  his  passion  for  her  a  certain, 
subtle  restraint  which  seemed  to  reveal  Eros  as  the  most 
exquisitely  considerate  of  all  the  gods. 

On  her  return  Sophy  went  to  Sweet-Waters  instead  of 
going  direct  to  Newport.  She  could  scarcely  sleep  that 
night  on  the  train,  for  thinking  how  soon  she  would  hold 
her  boy  in  her  arms  again.  But  Loring  was  more  keenly 
jealous  of  Bobby  than  ever.  Marriage  had  brought  this 
feeling  to  a  head. 

The  first  thing  Sophy  saw  as  the  train  slowed  down  at 
Sweet- Waters  station  was  his  little  face,  very  pale,  up 
turned  to  the  car  windows.  When  she  sprang  off  ami 
caught  him  in  her  arms,  he  trembled  so  that  he  could  not 
speak  for  some  moments. 

Then  he  said  earnestly,  in  a  faint,  beseeching  voice : 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  339 

"Muvvah — please  don't  leave  me  any  more,  for  Jesus' 
sake.  Amen. ' ' 

Sophy,  trembling  herself,  said : 

"Never  again,  my  darling.  Never,  never,  as  long  as  we 
both  live." 

Afterwards,  when  they  were  alone,  Loring  said  to  her  : 

"Don't  you  think  you  were  mistaken  to  make  the  boy 
such  a  promise  as  that  ? ' ' 

He  did  not  look  at  her  as  he  said  this,  but  at  his  tie  which 
he  was  fastening  before  the  glass. 

"What  promise?"  said  Sophy,  not  remembering  for  a 
moment. 

"That  you'd  never  leave  him  again.  Things  might  hap 
pen  to  make  it  necessary." 

"Nothing  could  happen  to  make  it  necessary.  I  prom 
ised  truly.  I  wouldn't  leave  him  again  for  anything  on 
earth — not  for  anything.  ..." 

' '  Not  even  for  me  1 ' '  asked  Loring.  He  was  still  looking 
at  his  tie,  which  refused  to  slip  into  the  right  knot. 

"That  couldn't  happen,  dear.  We  shall  always  be  to 
gether  I  hope." 

"You  can't  tell  ..."  said  Loring.    His  voice  was  stiff. 

Sophy  came  over  beside  him.  She  stood  watching  the 
reflection  of  his  nervous  fingers  in  the  glass  for  some 
minutes.  She  loved  his  hands.  They  were  long  and  slight, 
the  fine  bone-work  showing  clearly — sensitive,  self-willed 
hands.  She  thought  how  strange  it  was,  that  all  the  men 
she  had  ever  cared  for  had  had  fine  hands.  Even  Cecil's, 
huge  as  they  were,  had  been  well-moulded.  Cecil  .  .  . 
how  strange  to  think  of  Cecil's  hands  while  she  watched 
these  others.  .  .  .  Life  was  like  that.  The  tangle  of  mem 
ory  made  one  thread  pull  another  endlessly.  She  felt  very 
sad  all  of  a  sudden. 

Loring  did  not  say  anything  more.  Presently  he  jerked 
the  tie  from  about  his  neck  and  threw  it  on  the  floor. 

"Hell!"  he  said  heartily. 

Sophy  laughed,  then  grew  grave.  His  white  face  looked 
so  disproportionately  furious  to  the  cause  of  wrath.  He 
snatched  up  another  tie  and  set  to  work  again. 

After  a  while  Sophy  said  in  a  low  voice : 

"Morris  .  .  .  don't  you  like  Bobby?" 

"Like  him?  ...  Of  course  I  like  him.  .  .  .  Damn  this 
tie!" 


340  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

Sophy  waited  a  moment. 

"Morris  ..." 

"Well?" 

"What  is  it,  dear?    What  has  vexed  you?" 

"I  should  think  you  could  see  that  for  yourself,"  he 
said  impatiently,  raging  with  the  second  tie. 

He  had  never  been  downright  cross  with  her  before. 
But  Sophy  understood.  She  felt  almost  as  tenderly  to  him 
as  she  had  to  Bobby  on  a  like  occasion.  But  the  sad  feeling 
grew  in  her  heart.  They  were  jealous  of  each  other.  Jeal 
ousy  was  a  hideous  guest  at  life's  table.  She  sighed  un 
consciously.  He  darted  a  swift  glance  at  her.  The  droop 
of  her  head  touched  him  suddenly.  He  turned,  catching 
her  to  him. 

"Oh,  Selene!"  he  groaned.  "Don't  you  see?  I'm  just 
a  low,  mortal  wretch  and  I'm  disgustingly,  damnably  jeal 
ous — that's  all.  Beautiful — I  swear  it.  ...  I  quake  in  my 
very  vitals  when  I  think  that  you  may  love  that  boy  more 
than  me.  .  .  .  The  child  of  another  man — more  than  me." 
He  held  her  fiercely. 

She  put  up  her  hand  to  his  neck  as  she  leaned  against 
him. 

"You  needn't  be  afraid,"  she  said  softly.  "I  couldn't 
love  any  one  more  than  I  love  you,  dear." 

He  had  to  be  satisfied  with  this.  He  was  afraid  to  ask 
if  she  loved  him  more  than  she  loved  her  son.  But  this  was 
what  he  wanted.  This  was  the  only  thing  that  would 
satisfy  him.  And  he  was  not  only  jealous  of  Bobby.  As 
he  had  said  once  before,  he  was  jealous  of  the  dead  man — 
of  Bobby's  father.  This  is  perhaps  the  bitterest  jealousy 
of  all — the  jealousy  of  the  dead  who  has  once  been  dearest 
to  what  is  now  our  dearest. 


XIV 

IT  seemed  very  strange  to  Sophy,  as  unreal  as  this  new 
love  in  another  way,  to  find  herself  once  more  in  the  noisy 
glitter  of  the'  world  after  her  three  years  of  hermitage. 
"The  crackling  of  thorns  under  a  pot"  it  seemed  to  her — 
of  big  gilded  thorns  under  a  big  gilded  pot.  The  pot 
bubbled  merrily,  boiling  over  with  iridescent  froth ;  its 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  341 

steam  was  heady,  causing  those  who  tended  it  to  dance 
blithely  like  self -hypnotised  Arabs  about  a  brazier.  Sophy 
enjoyed  gorgeous  foolery  as  much  as  any  other,  when  she 
was  in  the  mood.  But  now  she  was  far  from  the  mood.  It 
was  as  if  Endymion  had  insisted  on  presenting  Selene  at 
the  court  of  Elis  with  "excursions  and  alarums,"  and 
gaudy  pageants — as  if  he  could  not  feel  his  goddess  wholly 
his  until  the  curious  eyes  of  the  courtiers  approved  his 
choice.  For  she  had  found  out  that  it  was  by  his  desire 
that  his  mother  had  so  insisted  on  this  visit.  Mrs.  Loring 
had  been  quite  unconscious  of  betraying  motives  when  she 
said :  "I  wouldn 't  urge  you,  my  dear,  but  Morry  so  wishes 
it.  He  thinks  you've  been  too  long  in  this  dear,  dreamy  old 
place.  Besides,"  she  had  added,  smiling,  "he  naturally 
wishes  the  world  to  see  his  Faery  Queen.  ..." 

Sophy  had  mentioned  this  to  Loring. 

"Don't  let's  go,  dear.  ...  I'm  sure  your  mother  will 
understand.  And  I  really  hate  the  idea,"  she  had  said  to 
him. 

But  Loring  had  replied : 

"You  don't  know  my  mother  yet,  Beautiful.  She  would 
feel  awfully  cut  up  if  we  didn't  go  to  her  after  we  came 
back.  Don't  you  see? — It  would  look  queer  to  others, 
too.  .  .  ." 

Sophy  had  yielded  in  the  end.  Yet  she  smiled  to  herself, 
a  little  wistfully,  reflecting  on  the  meaning  of  the  name 
Endymion,  "a  being  that  gently  comes  over  one."  Here 
she  was — to  her  mind  the  most  pitiable  of  trophy-ikons — a 
bride  displayed  in  new  attire,  new  jewels  and  new  love,  to 
the  eyes  of  the  appraising  world. 

In  all  the  conviviality  poured  over  him  as  bridegroom  by 
laughing  friends,  Morris  was  very  careful  not  to  go  too 
far  that  summer.  The  friends  grinned  slyly — "  Morry 's 
on  the  water-wagon  of  love,"  the  word  went  round.  Some 
wag  said  that  the  fire-water  of  matrimony  went  flat  in  the 
second  year — and  "Mrs.  Morry"  might  find  her  consort 
drinking  from  other  stills.  This  would  prove  a  shock. 

"Oh,  she  won't  mind,"  a  woman  had  said  easily. 
' '  Morry 's  so  perfectly  delightful  when  he 's  taken  a  bit  too 
much.  He's  so  amusing." 

But  on  the  first  occasion  of  this  kind  Sophy  had  minded 
very  much  indeed.  It  did  not  happen  until  towards  the 
middle  of  their  first  winter  in  New  York.  They  had  given 


342  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

a  dinner  and  some  people  had  stayed  on  afterwards  until 
one  o'clock.  One  of  the  guests,  a  young  Bavarian,  had 
played  rousingly  on  the  piano.  The  keys  seemed  to  smoke 
under  his  long,  vigorous  hands.  He  ended  with  some 
frenzied  Polish  dances.  Everybody  was  drinking  and 
smoking — Loring  drank  more  than  he  smoked.  A  pretty 
gypsy  looking  woman  jumped  up  and  began  an  impromptu 
dance  to  the  wild  music.  Loring  began  to  dance  with  her. 
The  game  of  drawing-room  romps  became  breathless. 

Sophy  sat  amused  like  the  rest.  His  head  looked  so 
oddly  Greek  with  its  short,  tossing  locks  above  the  ugly 
cylinders  of  his  modern  dress.  He  should  have  had  on  a 
leopard's  skin.  As  this  thought  came  to  her,  some  one 
cried:  "Oh,  Morry ! — Do  give  us  the  'Reformed  Alcibi- 
ades'  ...  Do!  do! — I  haven't  seen  you  do  it  for  a  whole 
year.  ..." 

A  chorus  rose  at  once  about  him.  lie  hesitated  a  mo 
ment — glanced  at  Sophy.  She  was  smiling.  "Shall  I?" 
he  said  doubtfully. 

"Well — I  confess  I'm  curious  to  see  how  a  'reformed 
Alcibiades'  would  dance  ..."  she  said,  still  smiling. 

Von  Hoff,  the  young  man  at  the  piano,  began  a  most 
enticing,  fiery  measure.  It  went  to  Loring 's  head.  He 
tossed  off  a  whiskey  and  soda,  cried,  "Here  goes,  then!" 
and  ran  from  the  room. 

"Haven't  you  really  ever  seen  him  do  it,  Mrs.  Loring?" 
said  the  woman  who  had  asked  for  the  dance. 

"No — I  didn't  even  know  he  could  dance  so  clev 
erly.  .  .  ." 

"You've  a  treat  before  you,  then.  It's  the  most  delicious 
thing  you  ever  saw.  ..." 

"Strike  up,  slave!"  came  Loring 's  voice  from  the  next 
room.  Von  Hoff  "struck  up."  Loring  had  whispered 
him  what  to  play  as  he  ran  out.  It  was  a  voluptuous,  half 
Spanish,  half  Oriental  measure.  To  its  rhythm  Loring 
danced  back  into  the  room.  He  had  set  a  huge  wreath  of 
artificial  roses  with  flying  ribbons  on  his  head.  His  even 
ing  trousers  were  rolled  up,  leaving  his  legs  bare  from  the 
knee  down.  A  pair  of  elaborate  sandals — relics  of  Har 
vard  days — encased  his  feet.  He  had  taken  off  his  coat 
and  collar  and  rolled  back  his  shirt-sleeves.  A  wide,  white 
silken  scarf  of  Sophy's  formed  his  peplum.  Under  one 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  343 

arm  was  tucked  a  big,  stuffed  pheasant  to  represent  the 
pet  quail  of  Alcibiades.  In  his  hand  he  held  a  wine-cup, 
inverted. 

The  dance  began  charmingly.  Alcibiades  was  evidently 
refusing  all  invitations  to  drink  from  many  invisible  com 
rades.  .  .  .  The  first  shock  of  thus  seeing  him  comically 
"dressed  up" — in  a  costume  which  was  only  saved  from 
low  absurdity  by  the  perfect  beauty  of  his  classic  head 
and  slight  figure — this  first  startled  recoil  having  passed, 
Sophy  watched  his  amazingly  graceful  poses  with  a  toler 
able  pleasure.  She  could  not  really  enjoy  it — that  her 
husband  should  prance  about  so  attired  for  the  amusement 
of  their  guests — but  she  remembered,  soberly  enough,  that 
he  was  very  young,  and  that  her  distaste  was  probably  the 
result  of  maturer  years. 

Then  came  the  real  shock.  The  dance  grew  frankly 
ludicrous.  With  dextrous  sleight  of  hand,  Alcibiades  made 
it  appear  as  though  his  "quail"  were  angrily  demanding 
a  drink  from  the  inverted  goblet.  The  fowl  finally  con 
quers.  The  goblet  is  filled  for  him  again  and  again.  Alci 
biades  can  no  longer  resist  temptation,  thus  seeing  a  mere 
fowl  take  its  fill.  He,  too,  begins  to  drink.  .  .  .  The  dance 
ends  in  a  mad,  drunken  whirl,  in  which  Alcibiades  crowns 
the  pheasant  with  his  wreath,  and  they  collapse  together 
upon  the  floor  in  a  maudlin  heap. 

The  thing  was  really  wonderfully  well  done.  The  guests 
were  in  ecstasies  of  laughter.  But  Sophy  felt  cold  and 
sick.  It  seemed  to  her  that  he  could  not  love  her  as  she 
had  thought.  Else  how  could  he  turn  the  body  that  she 
loved  into  a  travesty  for  others  to  laugh  at?  She  felt  as 
though  the  dignity  of  their  mutual  love  were  lying  there 
on  the  floor,  sprawled  and  ruffled  and  lifeless  like  the 
stuffed  pheasant.  .  .  . 

This  feeling  was  not  apparent  in  her  face.  Her  training 
had  been  too  thorough  and  bitter  for  her  to  let  the  world 
have  even  a  glimpse  of  her  chagrin.  But  though  no  one 
else  guessed  it,  Loring  was  aware  instantly  of  something 
wrong.  As  soon  as  he  had  changed  back  to  ordinary  dress, 
and  returned  to  the  drawing-room,  where  people  were  now 
saying  good-night — he  felt  this.  And  he,  too,  was  chag 
rined.  He  had  taken  just  enough  liquor  to  make  this 
chagrin  of  his  savour  of  anger.  For  the  first  time  he  felt 


344  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

her  "superiority"  not  as  that  of  a  goddess,  but  of  a  wife. 
She  "disapproved"  of  him.  To  be  "disapproved"  of  had 
always  roused  the  ugly  side  of  his  nature. 

"And  she  told  me  herself  to  go  ahead,"  he  thought  ire- 
fully.  "Now  she's  got  it  in  for  me.  ...  I'll  be  curtain- 
lectured  I  suppose — get  a  glimpse  of  the  seamy  side  of 
matrimony.  ..." 

He  reinforced  himself  with  another  high-ball. 

When  the  last  guest  had  gone  he  went  up  to  Sophy.  She 
had  turned  to  get  her  fan  from  a  sofa  where  she  had  left 
it.  It  was  the  fan  of  white  peacock  feathers  that  Amaldi 
had  once  admired.  She  thought  of  him  suddenly  as  she 
took  it  in  her  hand.  How  would  he  have  looked  had  he 
seen  that  dance? — She  reddened.  Why  did  such  thoughts 
come  to  one  ?  Life  was  quite  difficult  enough  without  these 
unbidden,  scathing  fancies.  She  tried  to  put  on  a  natural, 
easy  expression.  As  is  always  the  case,  this  gave  her  face  a 
strained  look — the  look  of  one  "sitting"  for  a  photograph. 

On  his  side,  Loring's  had  an  expression  that  Sophy  was 
only  too  familiar  with — but  until  now,  she  had  never  seen 
it  on  his  face.  It  was  the  pale,  black-eyed,  fixed  expression 
of  a  man  who  has  taken  too  much  to  drink,  without  being 
in  the  least  "drunk."  Sophy  could  not  tell  what  it  was 
she  felt  at  that  moment.  It  was  like  the  pang  of  a  strange 
sickness.  And  again  it  was  like  a  blow  on  an  old  wound. 
The  old  and  new  wound  seemed  bleeding  together  in  her 
breast.  She  tried  to  pass  him  with  a  smile. 

"It's  all  hours  of  the  night.  ...  I'm  simply  dropping 
with  sleep  ..."  she  said,  her  voice,  at  least,  natural 
enough. 

He  planted  himself  in  her  way.  His  hands  were  deep  in 
his  pockets.  His  white,  fixed  young  face  was  dropped  a 
little.  He  looked  up  at  her  stilly  from  under  the  beautiful 
arch  of  his  brows  that  she  so  loved.  .  .  .  They  always  re 
minded  her  of  Marlowe's  lovely  expression  "airy  brows." 
Now  they  lowered  like  clouds  over  the  bold,  still  eyes. 

"I  say,  Selene,"  he  blurted,  enunciating  his  words  very 
clearly.  ' '  Let 's  have  it  ...  and  get  done  with  it.  .  .  . " 

"What,  Morris?" 

"The  wigging  you've  got  in  pickle  for  me.  .  .  .  Mixing 
my  metaphors,  too,  ain  't  I  ?  .  .  .  There 's  another  grievance 
for  you.  .  .  .  Poetess  as  well  as  goddess  will  take  umbrage 
now.  ,  ." 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  345 

Sophy  hated  being  called  ' '  poetess. ' '  That  Morris  should 
call  her  "poetess"  seemed  the  last  touch  of  irony.  She 
stood  looking  at  him  gently. 

"I  haven't  got  a  'wigging'  in  store  for  you,"  she  said. 
' '  Why  are  you  angry  ? ' ' 

' '  Why  are  you  angry  ?  .  .  .  But,  there,  that 's  poppycock 
— my  asking  that.  I  know  devilish  well  why  you  're  angry. 
It's  because  I  danced  that  Alcibiades  thing.  .  .  .  Well — 
you  told  me  to,  didn't  you?" 

Sophy  hesitated.     Then  she  said  frankly : 

"It's  true  I  didn't  like  it,  Morris.  But  that  oughtn't 
to  vex  you."  Her  voice  trembled  suddenly.  "When  a 
woman  loves  a  man  as  I  love  you — she  can't  bear  to  ... 
to  see  him  .  .  .  like  that." 

' '  Make  a  fool  of  himself,  you  mean  ? ' ' 

Sophy  went  close  and  put  her  hand  on  his  breast. 

"Morris  ..."  she  said,  "are  you  trying  to  quarrel  .  .  . 
with  me,  dear?" 

Her  tone  was  lovely  as  she  said  this.  "He's  so  young 
...  so  young  ..."  she  was  telling  herself. 

But  Loring's  overstrung  mood  sensed  this  maternal  in 
dulgence,  and  it  infuriated  him  still  further. 

"You've  got  me  mixed  with  your  dear  Bobby,  haven't 
you?"  he  asked  sneeringly. 

"Oh,  Morris!" 

She  drew  back,  flushing  even  over  her  neck  and  arms. 
Anger  as  well  as  pain  drove  her  blood. 

"Well — you  used  just  the  tone  you'd  use  to  a  youngster 
who'd  been  stealing  jam,"  he  said  sulkily. 

Sophy  stood  playing  with  the  fan  of  white  feathers. 
Life  seemed  a  nightmare  to  her  just  then.  This  rude, 
sullen  boy  who  was  yet  her  husband  made  her  feel  as  if 
all  the  gods  of  Malice  were  watching  her.  She  could  al 
most  hear  the  Olympian  titter  go  round  the  room.  She 
tried  to  think  of  some  way  of  lifting  their  life  out  of  this 
horrid,  commonplace  quagmire  into  which  it  had  slipped 
so  suddenly — and  it  was  as  if  their  life  were  some  huge, 
smooth,  handleless  vessel  upon  which  she  could  not  get  a 
grip. 

"He  isn't  himself — this  isn't  the  real  Morris "  her 

thought  sanely  reminded  her.  "This  is  Whiskey.  ..." 

She  lifted  her  slight  figure  with  a  sudden  movement  of 
determination. 


346  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

"Morris,  dear,"  she  said,  "I'm  not  going  to  let  you 
quarrel  with  me.  .  .  .  Good-night." 

She  went  swiftly  by  him  into  her  bedroom.  He  longed 
to  catch  her  arms  and  stop  her  as  she  went  by,  but  he  did 
not  dare.  He  turned  on  his  heel  and  went  back  into  the 
drawing-room.  The  butler  was  clearing  away  the  tray  of 
liqueurs  and  whiskey. 

"Hold  on  a  moment,  Jennings,"  said  Loring.  He  took 
another  stiff  drink.  As  often  happens,  this  last  dram  of 
whiskey  wrought  a  totally  different  mood  in  him.  Within 
five  minutes  his  anger  had  merged  into  a  wild  impulse  of 
desire.  He  wondered  now  that  he  could  have  been  so  curt 
with  his  Selene.  He  understood  as  in  a  flash  of  revelation 
why  she  had  objected  to  that  "rotten  dance."  He  wanted 
to  tell  her  so  with  devouring  kisses.  He  waited  until  the 
servants  had  withdrawn,  then  went  to  her  bedroom  door. 

' '  Who  is  it  ? "  came  her  voice. 

"I  ...  Endymion,"  he  murmured. 

He  was  ablaze  with  love  and  repentance  and — whiskey, 
but  he  was  still  not  in  the  least  what  could  be  called 
"drunk." 

"Come  in,"  said  Sophy.  Her  heart  failed  her.  Was 
he  coming  to  have  his  quarrel  out?  She  felt  quite  numb — 
lifeless — as  though  made  of  wood.  Her  maid  had  un 
dressed  her  and  plaited  her  long  hair  for  the  night.  She 
was  sitting  before  the  fire  in  her  white  dressing-gown. 
Her  eyes  looked  very  sad  to  him  in  her  quiet  face.  He 
came  and  threw  himself  on  his  knees  beside  her. 

"Forgive  me  ...  forgive  me,  Selene  .  .  .  forgive 
me  .  .  ."  he  murmured,  unconsciously  metrical.  At  any 
other  time  Sophy  would  have  teased  him  for  it.  Now  she 
did  not  even  notice  it.  She  had  been  thinking:  "George 
Eliot  says  somewhere  that  'we  can  endure  our  worst  sor 
rows  but  once'  ...  I  am  enduring  mine  twice.  ..." 

She  put  her  hand  on  the  bowed  head. 

"Never  mind,  dear,"  she  said. 

He  seized  her  bare  arm  in  both  hot  hands,  and  his  lips, 
still  hotter,  ran  over  it.  She  shivered,  trying  to  draw  it 
away  from  him.  He  thought  that  she  shivered  with  love. 
He  sprang  to  his  feet,  and,  tall  woman  as  she  was,  so  great 
was  the  feverish  strength  of  his  desire,  he  drew  her  easily 
up  from  the  low  chair  into  his  arms.  His  breath  reeking 
of  spirit  poured  over  her  half  averted  face.  She  could  not 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  347 

bear  to  struggle  with  him.  That  would  seem  the  last 
degradation. 

"I'm  tired,  dear  ..."  she  whispered.  "I'm  deadly 
tired.  ..." 

And  he  laughed.  And  this  low  exultant  laugh,  that  had 
once  made  such  music  in  her  ears,  seemed  like  that  silent 
tittering  of  malicious  gods  grown  audible. 

"No  .  .  .  Morris  ...  no  ..."  she  said,  bracing  her 
self  against  him  by  her  strong,  slight  arms.  He  laughed 
on.  He  began  to  whisper  incoherently  in  her  averted 
ear.  .  .  . 

"Oh,  moon- woman  .  .  .  oh,  virgin-goddess  .  .  .  Don't 
I  know  all  your  sweet  reluctances  by  heart  ?  .  .  .  Isn  't  that 
what  made  me  mad  to  conquer  you?  .  .  .  You  tempted  me 
yourself.  .  .  .  Listen  ...  I  never  confessed  it.  ...  Now 
I'll  confess  for  penance.  .  .  .  Do  you  know  what  made 
me  first  swear  I'd  marry  you?  .  .  .  Your  own  words, 
Selene!  .  .  .  Your  own  words!  ...  It  was  a  verse  of 
yours  I  read.  .  .  .  Oh,  such  a  cock-sure  .  .  .  Olympian 
verse!  .  .  .  Listen:  Do  you  remember?  .  .  .  Here's  how 
it  went  ..." 

He  muttered  her  own  words  of  passionate  freedom  into 
her  averted,  shrinking  ear: 

"  '  I  am  the  Wind 's,  and  the  Wind  is  mine ! 

No  mortal  lover  shall  me  discover; 
Freedom  clear  is  our  bridal-wine — 

Oh,  lordly  Wind!     Oh,  perfect  lover!  .  .  .'  " 

"There! — That's  what  made  me  set  my  will  like  steel  to 
conquer  you.  .  .  .  I'll  be  her  'mortal  lover'  I  said.  .  .  . 
And  see ! — You  are  in  my  arms  ..." 

He  stopped  aghast.  In  his  arms,  heavily  drooping,  her 
face  thrust  from  him  against  her  own  shoulder,  she  was 
weeping  like  one  broken-hearted. 


XV 

THE  situation  had  solved  itself  after  that.  Dismayed  and 
thunderstruck,  Loring  had  been  glad  to  loose  his  weeping 
goddess  from  his  arms.  It  had  never  occurred  to  him  that 
his  Selene  could  cry  frankly,  with  choking  sobs  and  great 


348  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

tears  like  any  other  woman.  It  was  a  most  discomfortable 
revelation.  Like  all  men  he  hated  tears — but  these  especial 
tears  in  addition  to  disconcerting  him  made  him  feel  a 
blunderer,  a  sorry  fool.  They  set  him  in  a  darkness  of 
confused  wonder,  where  he  felt  like  a  chastised  child  in  a 
cupboard. 

But  Sophy  stopped  crying  almost  at  once. 

"Morris,  dear,"  she  said,  "you  know  I  told  you  I  was 
deadly  tired.  ...  I  really  am  too  tired  to  talk  to-night — 
I  feel  almost  ill,  I'm  so  weary.  But  to-morrow  I'll  say 
everything  that's  in  my  heart.  .  .  .  Go  to  bed  now,  will 
you,  like  a  kind  darling?  I  ...  I'm  better  alone  when 
.  .  .  when  I  feel  like  this." 

Loring  looked  at  her,  then  down  at  the  hearth-rug.  His 
lips  pursed. 

' '  You  '11  clear  this  up  for  me  to-morrow  ? "  he  asked  in  a 
sullen  voice. 

"Yes,  dear — I  promise." 

"All  right,  then.     Sorry  you  feel  so  seedy." 

He  went  towards  the  door.  Before  he  reached  it  his 
gorge  rose  with  wounded  pride  and  bewildered  indigna 
tion.  He  turned  his  head  as  he  went  out. 

"Sorry  I've  been  guilty  of  blasphemy  .  .  ."  he  said. 
"Loving  a  goddess  is  rather  steep  work  at  times.  ..." 

He  went  out,  his  eyes  hard  and  resentful. 

Sophy  sank  into  her  chair  again.  She  sat  looking  into 
the  fire.  She  remembered  how  they  had  sat  hand  in  hand, 
after  their  first  kiss,  looking  into  another  fire  only  a  few 
months  ago. 

But  this  was  whiskey,  she  reminded  herself — only 
whiskey.  She  must  prove  to  him  and  herself  that  she  was 
stronger  than  a  mere  appetite.  But  as  she  sat  there  staring 
at  the  fire,  it  was  Cecil  that  she  thought  of,  more  than 
Loring.  How  terrible  and  fatal  it  seemed  that,  twice  over, 
she  should  be  the  rival  of  such  things  with  those  she  loved. 
For  her  sake  Cecil  had  set  himself  to  conquer.  Then  death 
had  taken  him.'  ^^t  before  he  had  died  he  had  killed  her 
highest  love  for  him.  .  .  . 

The  next  day  they  had  a  full  talk  together.  He  was  in 
a  very  gentle,  penitent  humour.  He  said  that  he  under 
stood  just  how  she  had  felt. 

He  was  on  his  knees  by  her  chair,  in  his  favourite  atti 
tude,  holding  her  waist  with  both  arms. 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  349 

She  bent  towards  him.  Her  heart  was  very  glad  within 
her.  She  took  his  face  between  her  hands  and  kissed  him 
on  the  eyes. 

"You  see,  dearest,"  she  said,  "I'm  a  very  faithful  wife. 
I'm  Morris  Loring's  wife  and  I  won't  be  made  love  to 
by" — she  looked  straight  into  the  eyes  that  she  had  just 
kissed — ''by  John  Barleycorn,"  she  ended,  smiling,  to 
ease  the  tense  moment  for  them  both. 

Loring  dropped  down  his  face  into  her  lap.  Then  he 
looked  up  again.  A  dance  came  into  his  eyes,  that  had  been 
ashamed  for  a  moment. 

"I'll  .  .  .  I'll  kill  the  adulterous  beggar!"  he  mur 
mured. 

Sophy  felt  a  sharp  twinge  at  her  heart.  Were  all  men 
more  or  less  alike,  she  wondered?  Cecil  Chesney  himself 
might  have  made  that  remark  and  in  just  that  way. 

Things  went  well  after  that  for  some  months.  Loring's 
friends  even  wagged  wise  heads  of  grave  foreboding  over 
it.  ' '  Mrs.  Morry  's  got  him  too  rankly  bitted, ' '  they  agreed 
unanimously.  "He'll  rear  and  come  over  backwards  if 
she  don't  look  out.  ..." 

But  Sophy  was  very  moderate.  She  had  no  prudish 
objection  to  his  drinking  in  reason.  She  didn't  enjoy 
seeing  him  in  the  false  high  spirits  engendered  sometimes 
by  extra  "cocktails,"  but  she  only  positively  objected  to 
the  amorousness  occasioned  by  them.  He  had  had  his 
lesson,  however. 

And  as  the  winter  wore  on,  and  Sophy  became  more 
familiar  with  the  social  life  of  New  York,  she  understood 
better  and  better  this  side  of  Loring's  character.  She 
found  that  there  were  very  few  young  men  of  his  "set" 
who  did  not  drink  as  a  matter  of  course.  Very  often, 
nearly  always  at  balls  and  dances,  many  of  them  would 
be  genially  "tight"  by  the  end  of  the  evening.  This  only 
made  them  extremely  noisy  and  "larky"  as  a  rule.  She 
found  that  the  women  took  this  state  of  affairs  with  in 
dulgent  philosophy.  Often  they  were  amused  by  it. 

As  a  whole  the  social  life  of  New  York,  quite  apart  from 
this  feature,  did  not  appeal  to  her.  Its  mad  speed  and 
ostentation  resulted  in  a  sort  of  golden  glare  of  monotony. 
Yet  there  were  charming  people,  both  men  and  women, 
caught  protesting  in  the  maelstrom.  They  protested  bit 
terly  as  they  went  whirling  round  and  round.  Yet,  when 


350  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

the  maelstrom  spewed  them,  forth  in  the  spring  tide — for 
the  most  part,  they  allowed  themselves  to  be  sucked  in  by 
other  whirlpools,  such  as  Paris  and  London  and  Newport. 
Sophy  wondered  at  the  nervous  constitutions  which  could 
stand  such  fevered  repetition  endlessly  renewed.  She  re 
flected  that  Americans  were  said  to  be  the  most  nervous 
people  on  earth.  Yet  she  thought  their  nerves  must  be  of 
thrice  tempered  steel  to  support  the  life  that  they  pro- 
testingly  led  from  year's  end  to  year's  end. 

She  determined  that,  since  her  lot  was  now  cast  here, 
she  would  temper  her  surroundings  as  much  to  her  own 
taste  as  possible.  For  she  had  found  out,  among  other 
somewhat  astonishing  things,  that  Loring  was  socially  am 
bitious  for  her.  He  was  resolved  to  build  an  elaborate  and 
sumptuous  house  in  New  York — what  American  journals 
call  a  "mansion."  Sophy  pleaded  for  ample  time  in  which 
to  decide  on  the  architecture  and  type  of  this  house.  In 
the  meantime  they  spent  their  spare  hours  in  hunting  for 
a  temporary  abode  where  they  might  live  during  the  next 
three  or  four  years. 

The  house  of  Loring 's  mother  was  the  usual  mass  of 
gilding  and  marble  that  characterised  the  last  quarter  of 
the  nineteenth  century  in  New  York.  It  was  Italian.  The 
lower  floor  looked  like  an  ancient  Roman  Bath.  On  the 
second  floor  was  a  Renaissance  fountain.  The  library 
chimney-piece  was  formed  of  an  entire  doorway  taken  from 
some  tomb  in  Italy,  and  still  bearing  the  Italian  family's 
coat-of-arms. 

Sophy  found  what  she  wanted  at  last  in  a  delightful  old 
corner-house  in  Washington  Square.  Every  one  remon 
strated.  The  tide  of  fashion  was  rushing  like  an  eagre  ' '  up 
to  the  Park."  Sophy  did  not  care  for  Central  Park.  She 
said  that  she  was  sure  its  Dryads  were  all  made  of  cast- 
iron  and  went  bumping  up  and  down  every  night  between 
the  horrific  bronze  colossi  in  the  main  avenue.  This  did 
not  seem  a  sufficient  reason  to  Loring 's  friends  for  selecting 
such  an  out-of-date,  deserted  spot  as  Washington  Square 
in  which  to  live  for  the  next  four  years. 

However,  when  Sophy  had  finished  furnishing  and  dec 
orating  the  old  house,  Loring  was  charmed,  and  very  proud 
of  her.  But  the  house  was  not  completed  until  the  follow 
ing  autumn. 

In  the  meantime,  Loring,  without  saying  anything  to 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  351 

Sophy,  had  leased  one  of  the  Newport  "palaces"  from  an 
absent  owner  for  five  years. 

Sophy  saw  that  the  world  had  claimed  her  again.  Now 
her  mind  bent  itself  to  the  task  of  redeeming  some  months 
of  the  year  for  her  own  use.  She  began  to  feel  afraid. 
How  was  such  a  delicate  visitant  as  Poetry  to  be  enter 
tained  amid  all  this  confusion  of  tongues  and  glittering 
paraphernalia  ? 

"I  must  go  to  Sweet-Waters  for  May,"  she  told  Loring. 
"  I  '11  open  the  house  in  Newport  on  the  first  of  June. ' ' 

' '  But  I  'm  booked  for  those  polo  matches  on  Long  Island 
in  May, ' '  said  Loring. 

"I'm  sorry,  dear.  .  .  .  However,  you  won't  miss  me 
when  you're  playing  polo  you  know.  .  .  .  And  I  do  long 
for  a  May  in  Virginia." 

' '  Damn  Virginia ! ' '  said  Loring. 

Sophy  laughed  at  him. 

"You'll  love  me  all  the  more  when  I  come  back  to  you," 
she  coaxed.  "Don't  'damn'  poor  Virginia." 

"I  do  damn  it.  .  .  .  I'm  jealous  of  it. " 

"You  needn't  be." 

She  was  still  smiling  at  his  sulky  face. 

"Yes,  I  do  need  .  .  .  you  put  it  before  me." 

"Now,  Morris  ..." 

"Yes,  'Now,  Morris'  .  .  .  'Now,  Morris'  ..."  (He 
mimicked  her  reproachful  tone.)  "It's  always  'Now, 
Morris'  when  I  want  what  belongs  to  me.  ..." 

"  Oh !  So  I  '  belong '  to  you,  do  I  ?"  she  teased  affection 
ately. 

' '  Yes !  By  gad,  you  do !  You  married  me.  .  .  .  You  're 
my  wife.  A  wife  should  stay  with  her  husband.  You  do 
belong  to  me." 

He  had  his  "Marmion"  tone  very  pronouncedly. 

Sophy  said  prettily: 

"I  think  it  would  be  truer  to  say  we  both  'belong.'  : 

"Well  .  .  .  I'm  not  leaving  you,  am  I?" 

She  reached  out  and  took  the  sulky,  cleft  chin  between 
her  finger  and  thumb. 

"Poor  sing!  Did  dey  'buse  it?"  she  said,  as  she  ad 
dressed  Dhu  when  he  had  one  of  his  fits  of  collie-melan 
choly.  But  Loring  jerked  away  his  chin. 

"Please  don't  treat  me  like  a  baby,"  he  said  stiffly. 
"I'm  very  far  from  feeling  like  one." 


352  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

Sophy  pondered  a  moment.    Then  she  said : 

"I  hate  to  remind  people  of  promises  .  .  .  but  you'll 
remember  that  you  promised  me  I  should  have  some  time, 
every  year,  to  myself " 

"You're  tired  of  me  already — is  that  it?" 

"Now,  dear — how  am  I  to  keep  from  treating  you  like 
a  baby,  when  you  act  so  exactly  like  one?" 

"It's  babyish  for  a  man  to  want  his  wife  with  him, 
is  it?" 

' '  Isn  't  it  rather  babyish  of  him  not  to  want  her  to  take 
one  little  month  to  rest  in  and  see  her  own  people?" 

"I  thought  my  people  were  to  be  your  people  like  the 
woman  in  the  Bible?" 

"So  they  are  .  .  .  but  I've  seen  them  all  winter." 

"Tired  of  us  all.  eh?" 

Sophy  said  nothing  in  reply  to  this. 

"Oh,  well!"  he  exclaimed  angrily,  flouncing  to  the  door. 
"If  the  new  salt  has  lost  its  savour — go  to  your  old  salt 
lick.  .  .  ." 

lie  bounced  out,  clapping  the  door.  It  was  the  first 
coarse  thing  he  had  ever  said  to  her.  She  felt  indignant 
as  well  as  hurt.  But  when  she  reflected  that  his  ill  temper 
came  from  jealousy  she  was  sorry  for  him,  too. 

' '  But  I  must  go  all  the  same, ' '  she  reflected.  "  If  I  give 
in  this  time,  I  can  never  call  my  soul  my  own  again." 

She  left  for  Virginia  two  days  later,  taking  Bobby  with 
her.  She  and  Loring  had  not  quite  "made  up"  before 
she  left.  They  were  very  polite  to  each  other.  Sophy's 
heart  felt  sore.  This  attitude  of  his  was  spoiling  her  visit 
home.  She  thought  that  he  would  surely  soften  before 
the  train  drew  out.  But  he  did  not. 

He  lifted  his  hat  as  the  engine  began  its  hoarse  starting 
cough. 

'  <  Well— so  long, ' '  he  said.    ' '  A  happy  May  to  you ! ' ' 

Sophy  felt  a  proud  impulse  to  reply  in  kind.  Then  the 
sad  influence  of  parting,  even  for  so  short  a  time,  melted 
her.  She  put  her  head  from  the  window. 

"You'll  c.ome  down  to  Virginia  to  fetch  me  back,  won't 
you,  dear?"  she  asked. 

"Don't  know.  Depends  on  how  the  games  go,"  he  an 
swered  curtly.  ' '  I  '11 

The  chuff-chuff  of  the  moving  engine  drowned  the  rest 
of  the  sentence. 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  353 


XVI 

IT  was  on  the  twenty-fifth  of  April  that  Sophy  went  to 
Sweet- Waters.  But  in  spite  of  all  the  familiar,  springtide 
loveliness,  this  month  of  May  was  not  what  she  had 
dreamed.  She  missed  Loring.  His  curt  letters  wounded 
her.  No — she  could  not  be  happy  with  this  shadow  be 
tween  them. 

But  if  she  was  not  altogether  content,  Bobby  was.  He 
came  and  leaned  against  her  knee  as  she  was  brushing  her 
hair  one  morning.  He  was  nearly  six  now,  and  spoke 
much  more  plainly.  He  was  very  fond  of  "grown  up" 
words,  which  assumed  quaint  forms  under  his  usage. 

"Mother,"  he  said,  "couldn't  we  demain  here  with 
Uncle  Joe  and  Aunt  Chartie?  Are  we  'bliged  to  go  back 
to  Mr.  Loring?" 

Sophy  laid  down  her  brush  and  put  her  arm  around 
him.  His  seemingly  unconquerable  aversion  for  Loring 
was  a  great  grief  to  her. 

* "  Bobby, ' '  she  answered,  looking  gravely  into  his  anxious 
upturned  face,  "don't  you  understand?  Mother  is  Mrs. 
Loring  now.  She  must  go  back  to  Morris. ' ' 

Bobby  pondered,  lowering  his  eye's.   Then  he  said  slowly : 

"Won't  your  last  name  ever  be  the  same  as  mine  any 
more  at  all,  mother  ? ' ' 

"No,  darling.  But  names  matter  very  little.  What 
matters  is  that  you're  my  own  boy,  and  I'm  your  own. 
mother,  forever  and  ever." 

Bobby  was  silent.     Then  it  broke  from  him : 

"I  hate  you  to  have  his  name  'stead  of  mine!  ...  I 
...  I  hate  it  renormously,  mother ! ' ' 

She  held  the  boy  close  and  put  her  cheek  to  his. 

"Yes,  dear.  Mother  understands  how  you  feel  about 
that.  That's  natural.  But  what  hurts  me  is,  that  you 
won't  be  friends  with  Morris.  You  won't  even  call  him 
'Morris'  and  he's  asked  you  to  so  often.  Can't  you  do 
that  much  to  please  mother?" 

Bobby  got  very  red.    He  said  in  a  rather  strangled  voice : 

"Mother,  please  don't  ask  me  to  do  that." 

"Why,  dear?" 

"  'Cause  ..."  He  hesitated — then  said  in  a  rush,  very 
low: 


354  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

"  'Cause  I  don't  like  him  'miff  to  do  it." 

"Oh,  Bobby— that  hurts  mother." 

"  I  'm  sorry, ' '  he  said  gravely. 

"Then,  won't  you  try  to  feel  differently — for  mother's 
sake?" 

Bobby  twisted  a  lock  of  her  loosened  hair  round  and 
round  his  finger.  He  said  presently : 

"  'Tain't  any  use  tnjin'  to  like  people,  mother." 

He  thought  another  moment,  then  added : 

"Mr.  Loring  don't  like  me  an'  I  don't  like  Mr.  Loring. 
I  'spec  God  fixed  it  that  way — 'cause  it's  fixed  so  tight  it 
won't  come  loose." 

Loring,  on  his  side,  was  determined  to  discipline  Sophy  a 
bit.  She  shouldn't  think  that  she  could  desert  him  for  a 
whim,  and  he  take  it  like  a  good  little  husband,  by  Jove ! 

He  went  quite  wild  at  times  with  longing  for  her,  be 
cause  this  absence  only  whetted  his  desire.  All  his  desires 
throve  for  being  thwarted  sharply.  It  was  only  continu 
ous,  prolonged  denial  that  wore  his  very  thin  fibred  pa 
tience  to  the  snapping  point.  In  that  case  he  turned  to 
new  desires.  He  had  never  in  his  life  been  really  patient 
over  but  one  thing,  and  that  was  his  wooing  of  Sophy.  Or 
no,  he  had  been  patient  when  stalking  deer,  or  waiting  for 
wild  duck.  It  was  the  sporting  spirit  in  him  that  made 
him  so  admirably  patient  on  these  like  occasions.  But 
there  was  no  sporting  spirit  to  sustain  him  in  the  role  of 
husband.  A  wife  was  not  game  to  be  stalked.  She  was  a 
possession  to  be  enjoyed.  Sophy  must  learn  that  as  Selene 
she  was  goddess  to  his  Endymion — but  as  Mrs.  Morris 
Loring,  she  was,  well,  wife  to  her  husband. 

Loring  had  an  astonishing  power  of  sustaining  ill  tem 
per.  He  could  keep  a  grievance  alive  for  months  by  merely 
muttering  over  the  heads  of  the  offense  against  him — as  a 
lover  can  thrill  himself  by  murmuring  the  beloved's  name. 

Not  since  he  was  a  child  of  three,  afraid  to  go  to  sleep  in 
the  dark, -and  obstreperously  demanding  that  both  nurse 
and  mother  should  sit  holding  each  a  hand  until  oblivion 
claimed  him,  had  he  demanded  not  to  be  forsaken  without 
being  obeyed. 

Sophy  returned  to  New  York,  as  she  had  promised,  on 
the  twenty-seventh  of  May.  He  was  not  at  the  station  to 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  355 

meet  her.  She  wondered  whether  a  match  had  detained 
him,  or  whether  she  would  find  him  at  the  house. 

She  felt  very  helpless  against  this  unyielding  wall  of 
sullen,  consistent  anger. 

The  butler  told  her  that  Mr.  Loring  had  been  spending 
the  week-end  with  some  friends  on  Long  Island  but  had 
'phoned  that  morning  to  say  that  he  would  return  in  time 
for  dinner.  He  had  not  yet  come  in. 

She  went  upstairs  feeling  sad  and  discouraged.  It  was 
very  warm  and  oppressive  in  town  after  the  open  country. 
The  scent  of  the  hot  asphalt  came  in  through  the  open 
windows.  The  house  looked  queer  and  bleak,  all  dressed  in 
brown  holland  for  the  summer. 

The  butler  had  filled  the  rooms  with  American  Beauty 
roses.  She  disliked  these  roses.  They  always  suggested 
to  her  the  idea  that  they  had  been  mulched  with  bank  notes. 
She  sat  listlessly  in  the  big,  ornate  room  of  the  rented 
house,  surrounded  by  yards  of  brown  holland  and  acres  of 
the  artificial  looking  roses. 

At  a  quarter  past  eight  Loring  came  in.  She  heard  him 
speak  to  the  butler.  Then  he  went  to  his  own  room.  He 
came  down  in  half  an  hour.  Her  heart  swelled  when  she 
saw  him. 

He  came  over,  took  her  hand  loosely,  and  left  a  glancing 
kiss  upon  her  cheek. 

' '  You  look  fit.  ...  Had  a  pleasant  time  ? "  he  asked  po 
litely.  Then  in  the  same  breath  he  added :  ' '  Jove !  I  'm, 
hungry.  .  .  .  There's  nothing  like  a  good  go  at  polo  for 
making  a  chap  keen  on  his  tuck. ' ' 

' '  Who  won  ? ' '  asked  Sophy  politely.  She  was  dreadfully 
hurt ;  but  she  was  proud  also. 

"Oh,  our  side.  .  .  .  We've  been  winning  pretty  stead 
ily.  Nipped  the  three  last  goals  from  under  their  noses." 

They  maintained  a  laboured  conversation  in  the  drawing- 
room  until  ten.  Then  she  rose,  saying  that  she  thought  as 
they  were  to  leave  for  Newport  next  day,  she  would  go  to 
bed  early.  There  was  so  much  packing  to  see  about.  He 
rose,  too,  and  held  the  door  ceremoniously,  while  she  passed 
out. 

She  went  to  her  room  with  her  heart  aching  and  heavy. 

Drawing  aside  one  of  the  light  muslin  curtains,  she  stood 
at  the  window  in  her  thin  night-dress  trying  to  refresh 


356  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

herself  with  a  breath  of  outer  air,  even  though  it  reeked 
of  asphalt. 

The  door  of  her  room  opened  and  shut.  She  turned  with 
a  start.  Morris  was  striding  towards  her,  white  of  face 
and  black  of  eyes.  He  wrapped  her  in  a  fierce  hug.  She 
was  crushed  against  him  so  that  it  hurt  her.  His  eyes  were 
eating  her  face.  They  were  hard,  angry,  yet  burning  with 
desire.  It  was  almost  the  glare  of  hatred. 

' '  I  want  you  .  .  .  you  're  mine !  How  dare  you  keep  me 
wanting  you  like  this  ...  all  these  damnable  wreeks?" 

Sophy  stood  rigid  in  his  locked  arms.  That  look  in  his 
eyes  was  awful  to  her. 

"You  hurt  me,  Morris  ...  let  me  go  .  .  ."  she  said. 

"No,  I'll  not  let  you  go.  ...  I'm  master  in  this 
room.  ..." 

"Morris!" 

"You'll  take  the  consequences  of  making  me  hate  you 
and  love  you  at  the  same  time !  By  God !  you  '11  take  the 
consequences.  ..." 

She  felt  very  strong  and  cold — very  fiercely  cold  all  at 
once.  Their  eyes  blazed  on  each  other.  They  were  like 
two  enemies  at  grips  rather  than  two  lovers.  Then  his  arms 
dropped.  He  laughed.  He  put  up  one  hand  over  his  face 
and  went  on  laughing. 

As  soon  as  he  released  her,  Sophy  drew  one  or  two  long 
breaths.  It  really  hurt  her  to  breathe  at  first,  so  savagely 
had  he  crushed  her  to  him.  Then  she  stood  watching  him 
as  he  laughed.  And  he  laughed  and  laughed. 

Suddenly  she  went  up  to  him,  stole  her  two  arms  ten 
derly  about  him,  drew  his  face  with  his  hand  still  over  it 
down  to  her  shoulder. 

"Oh,  Morris  .  .  .  Morris  .  .  .  Morris  ..."  she  said. 

He  stopped  laughing  and  began  to  shake. 

"Endymion  ..."  she  whispered  close  to  his  ear. 

He  slid  to  his  knees  before  her,  burying  his  face  in  her 
gown. 

They  forgave  each  other  before  they  slept.  But  deep 
down  'in  Loring's  heart  there  was  resentment,  albeit  un 
realised. 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  357. 


XVII 

THE  next  two  weeks  they  spent  at  Nahant  with  Loring's 
mother. 

The  dream  was  fading  fast — the  dream,  but  not  her  love 
for  him.  That  remained  like  clear  marble  from  which  the 
purple  glamour  cast  through  stained  glass  slowly  with 
draws.  And  this  clear,  white  love  had  more  and  more  of 
the  maternal  in  it.  She  could  not  have  forgiven  those 
scenes  of  drink-inflamed  passion  had  not  there  been  in  her 
love  for  him  much  of  the  indulgent  tenderness  with  which 
she  regarded  Bobby's  outbreaks.  She  did  not  realise  this 
fully — the  purple  glow  still  lingered.  Love  to  a  poet  is 
poetry  or  it  is  nothing.  If  she  should  ever  come  to  read 
him  in  cold  prose,  love  would  flee  forever — Pteros — the 
Flyer,  he  is  called,  as  well  as  Eros.  .  .  . 

By  the  nineteenth  of  June  they  were  in  the  full  swing 
of  the  Newport  season. 

Sophy  did  not  play  tennis  herself,  but  she  would  go 
with  Morris  to  the  Casino  in  the  morning.  It  amused  her 
to  watch  all  these  passionately  energetic  young  women 
bent  on  fashionable  slimness,  violently  exercising  in  the 
torrid  heat — looking  like  some  new  type  of  odalisque,  veiled 
with  thick  brown  veils  half  way  up  their  noses  to  prevent 
sunburn.  Madly  they  would  dart  to  and  fro  until  midday, 
then  rush  for  the  beach.  She  found  it  even  more  amusing 
to  see  these  crowds  of  men  and  women  disporting  on  the 
well-kept  beach  and  in  the  sea  that  looked  so  well-kept 
also ;  the  men,  of  amazingly  varied  shapes — bereft  of  all 
elegance  by  their  scant  attire ;  the  women  more  elegant 
than  ever,  with  the  decolletage  of  charming  legs,  and  wear 
ing  fantastic  headgear  that  made  them  look  like  great  sea- 
poppies  and  bluets  blooming  on  the  tawny  sand — or  flying, 
as  though  wind-blown,  in  the  swing. 

The  routine  was  much  as  she  remembered  it  as  a  girl — 
luncheons,  dinner  parties  with  dancing  to  follow  at  the 
hostess's  house  or  some  other — balls,  fancy-balls,  theatri 
cals  at  the  Casino — the  usual  fantastic,  highly-coloured, 
sparkling  Masque  of  Pleasure.  It  was  agreeable  enough 
for  a  week  or  two — but  her  heart  failed  when  she  thought 
of  the  whole  summer — and  many  summers  to  follow — spent 
in  this  fashion.  She  was  glad  when  August  drew  to  its 


358  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

close,  and  nearly  all  the  women  had  taken  the  pose  of  being 
tired  or  even  ill,  and  not  going  out  any  more.  Then  she 
had  some  delightful,  real  country  rides  again  with  Morris. 
The  Island  was  charming  to  explore.  The  golden-rod  was 
beginning  to  blow  in  the  fields.  It  made  her  long  for 
Sweet-Waters.  But  she  would  not  vex  him  with  such  an 
allusion. 

"It's  nice  to  have  these  quiet  days  together,  isn't  it?" 
she  said,  as  he  tied  a  great  bunch  of  golden-rod  to  the 
dees  of  her  saddle,  and  another  to  his  own. 

These  quiet  days  at  Newport  did  not  last  long,  however. 
The  Kron  Prinz  of  Blauethiirme  arrived  suddenly  one  day, 
practically  unheralded.  And  presto ! — all  the  weary  and 
ailing  became  restored  as  by  magic.  The  descent  of  His 
Royal  Highness  into  the  stagnant  social  waters  was  like 
the  descent  of  the  angel  into  the  pool  of  Bethesda.  He  did 
but  trouble  the  waters  with  his  princely  foot,  and  straight 
way  all  sufferers  were  restored  to  abounding  and  healthful 
vigour.  The  erstwhile  exhausted  ladies  went  scampering 
about  like  chipmunks.  And  the  "society"  journals,  that 
had  been  mournfully  pecking  here  and  there  for  stray 
grains  of  interest,  now  fluttered  triumphant  with  whole 
sheaves  of  "snapshots"  and  thrilling  items. 

Sophy  winced  to  see  a  photograph  of  herself  as  frontis 
piece  of  a  "smart"  weekly.  It  had  been  taken  as  she 
crossed  the  lawn  of  the  Casino  with  the  Crown  Prince.  It 
was  headed,  "A  Famous  Beauty  and  a  Foreign  Prince." 
Underneath  was  written,  "Mrs.  Morris  Loring  walking 
with  II.  R.  H.  the  Crown  Prince  of  Blauethiirme.  Mrs. 
Loring  is  one  of  our  most  distinguished  and  chic  young 
matrons.  She  entertains  lavishly  and  brilliantly  both  at 
her  unique  town  house  in  New  York  (said  to  be  decorated 
by  her  own  fair  hands)  and  at  her  sumptuous  summer  pal 
ace  in  Newport.  Mrs.  Loring  was  formerly  the  wife  of  the 
Hon.  Cecil  Chesney,  younger  brother  of  Viscount  Wych- 
cote." 

She  tossed  the  paper  to  Morris  with  a  grimace.  "Look 
at  that  snobbish  abomination!"  she  said.  "How  good 
Americans  would  love  a  King  and  Court  all  their  own ! 
It's  a  pity  Washington  didn't  accept  that  crown  they  of 
fered  him.  ..." 

But  she  broke  off,  rather  dismayed  at  Loring 's  extreme 
fury  over  the  picture.  She  did  not  realise  that  what  so 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  359 

enraged  him  was  the  allusion  to  her  as  "formerly  the  wife 
of  the  Hon.  Cecil  Chesney." 

"Damn  it!"  he  fumed.  "How  dare  they  take  liberties 
with  your  name !  You  are  my  wife — I  '11  teach  them  to 
accept  that  fact  for  good  and  all!" 

The  thing  rankled  in  him  for  days.  Indeed  Sophy  had 
cause  to  remember  the  visit  of  the  Crown  Prince  of 
Blauethiirme  in  more  ways  than  one ;  for  there  was  a  "stag 
dinner"  given  him  towards  the  end  of  his  stay  at  Newport, 
and  Loring  was  one  of  the  hosts.  It  is  hard  to  leave  a 
"stag  dinner"  in  perfect  equipoise  of  mind  and  body,  espe 
cially  when  its  chief  guest  is  a  Royalty  who  chooses  to  re 
main  until  dawn,  and  shows  a  truly  regal  prowess  with  the 
wine-cup.  Loring  returned  at  five  o'clock  and  demanded 
to  enter  Sophy's  room.  She  had  locked  the  door.  She 
came  to  it  when  she  heard  his  voice,  but  refused  to  open  it. 

' '  Damn  it !  Do  you  turn  me  from  your  door  like  a  beg 
gar?"  he  called  angrily,  rattling  the  knob. 

"Don't  talk  so  loud,  Morris.  .  .  .  You'll  be  dreadfully 
sorry  for  losing  your  temper  like  this  to-morrow.  .  .  . 
You'll  be  glad  I  wouldn't  let  you  in.  .  .  ." 

He  was  quite  frantic. 

"Some  fine  day  you'll  shut  me  out  too  often,  my  lady!" 
he  raged  at  her. 

' '  Morris !    The  servants  will  hear  you.    Do  go ! " 

"All  right.  But  you  won't  always  be  able  to  whistle  me 
to  heel  when  you  want  to  ...  I  give  you  that  straight. ' ' 

He  laughed  coarsely.  His  state  showed  more  in  his 
laughter  than  in  his  speaking  voice. 

She  had  never  known  him  as  bad  as  this.  Her  very  soul 
felt  sick  and  faint  under  it.  She  heard  him  muttering  as 
he  went  off  along  the  corridor  to  his  own  room.  She  went 
back  to  bed  trembling.  She  thought  there  must  be  some 
way  to  stop  it.  She  sat  there  in  the  chill  August  dawn, 
thinking,  thinking. 


XVIII 

LORING 's  ill  humour  lasted  into  the  next  day.  He  could 
not  remember  clearly  what  had  caused  it,  but  he  knew  that 
he  was  aggrieved  with  Sophy  for  something.  It  came  to 
him  while  he  was  dressing.  He  did  not  get  up  until  two 


360  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

o'clock  that  afternoon.  His  man  served  him  some  black 
coffee  in  his  bedroom.  As  he  gulped  it  between  phases  of 
his  toilet,  he  remembered  suddenly:  "Locked  me  out  of 
her  room,  by  gad!" 

His  face  burnt.  He  knew  perfectly  well  that  he  had 
deserved  to  be  locked  out,  but  that  did  not  make  the  crime 
any  less  heinous  in  his  eyes. 

He  went  downstairs  in  a  still,  molten  frame  of  mind. 
The  feeling  of  physical  malaise  only  added  to  his  mental 
irritation. 

As  he  reached  the  hall,  Bobby  was  just  coming  in  from 
his  afternoon  walk  with  Kosa.  He  loved  this  walk  with 
Rosa.  She  allowed  him  to  do  so  many  more  delightful, 
interesting  things  than  his  French  governess.  For  in 
stance,  Mademoiselle  would  never  in  the  world  have  per 
mitted  him  to  pick  up  the  dear,  dirty,  lame  puppy  that  he 
was  now  squeezing  to  the  breast  of  his  white  coat. 

Loring  looked  down  at  the  clean  little  boy  and  the  dirty 
little  dog  with  a  displeased  frown.  Bobby  met  this  frown 
with  calm  defiance,  but  his  heart  began  to  throb  with  ap 
prehension  for  his  "sick  doggie." 

"Where  on  earth  did  you  get  that  filthy  beast?"  asked 
Loring. 

"I  found  him,"  said  Bobby. 

"Well,  you  can't  bring  him  into  the  house.  In  fact,  you 
can't  keep  him  at  all,"  his  step-father  remarked  grimly. 
"Put  him  down.  I'll  have  one  of  the  men  clear  him 
away." 

"No, "said  Bobby. 

"Put  him  down  at  once!  What  do  you  mean  by  saying 
'No'  when  I  tell  you  to  do  a  thing?" 

"I  mean  'no,'  "  said  Bobby. 

"You  impudent  monkey!"  said  Loring,  as  peculiarly 
angry  as  only  a  child  can  make  one.  "Here — give  me  the 
brute  this  instant." 

He  grasped  the  dog  by  its  nape — Bobby  held  it  tightly 
about  the  stomach.  The  dog  naturally  howled. 

"Let  go,  you  little  imp!"  said  Loring. 

He  gave  another  tug  at  the  dog.    It  yelped  again. 

"Leggo  my  doggie!  Leggo — man!"  cried  Bobby  furi 
ously. 

For  reply,  Loring  wrenched  the  puppy  from  him  and 
held  it  yowling  out  of  his  reach.  In  a  second  the  boy  had 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  361 

thrown  himself  upon  Loring  rs  free  hand,  and  silently,  like 
a  little  bull-terrier  himself,  had  set  his  small,  crimped 
teeth  in  it. 

Loring  gave  a  savage  cry  of  pain  and  anger,  and  drop 
ping  the  puppy,  which  fled  under  a  hall-chair,  grabbed  the 
boy.  He  prized  open  the  furious  little  jaws.  The  child 
was  white  and  red  in  patches  with  the  extremity  of  his 
wrath.  Loring  pinioned  him,  and  started  towards  the 
stairs.  He  was  met  by  Sophy  running  down  them.  She 
was  very  pale. 

"What's  the  matter?  "What  are  you  doing  with 
Bobby?"  she  asked.  She  held  out  her  arms.  "Give  him 
to  me, ' '  she  said. 

"Excuse  me,"  said  Loring.  "This  is  our  affair  .  .  . 
between  Bobby  and  me.  I'm  going  to  teach  him  not  to 
bite  like  a  little  cur!" 

"Give  him  to  me,  Morris,"  she  said,  almost  breathless. 
The  child  was  restraining  himself  manfully.  There  was  a 
smear  of  blood  on  his  mouth  from  Loring 's  bitten  hand. 
This  smear  turned  Sophy's  heart  to  water.  She  gasped 
out :  ' '  Oh !  .  .  .  You  've  hurt  him  .  .  .  his  mouth 's  bleed 
ing!" 

" That's  not  his  blood — little  devil!  It's  my  blood.  .  .  . 
Your  son  must  resemble  his  sainted  father  very  closely," 
he  added,  with  sudden  savagery.  "Let  me  by.  It's  time 
he  had  a  lesson — and  I  'm  going  to  give  it  to  him,  by  God ! ' ' 

But  Sophy  had  her  arms  round  Bobby.  He  was  held 
fast  by  the  four  determined  arms.  His  little  smeared 
mouth  was  pressed  tight.  He  was  as  white  as  Sophy  now. 

"Morris,"  she  was  saying  in  a  low,  quick  voice,  "I  know 
how  to  deal  with  him.  Let  him  come  to  me.  ..." 

"No.  It's  time  a  man  took  him  in  hand.  Don't  make  a 
scene  here  in  the  hall. ' ' 

"Give  me  my  son.  ..." 

"Don't  make  a  scene,  I  tell  you.  I'm  not  going  to  let  a 
British  brat  stick  his  teeth  in  me  with  impunity.  Take 
your  hands  off.  Let  me  go ! " 

"You  shall  never  strike  him — never!" 

"All  this  is  so  good  for  the  boy,  ain't  it?" 

"Do  you  want  me  to  despise  you?" 

"I  don't  care  what  you  do,  so  long  as  I  give  this  little 
beggar  a  trouncing." 

All  this  time  the  boy  neither  struggled  nor  uttered  a 


362  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

sound.  Suddenly  he  spoke.  The  tone  was  as  if  Cecil 
spoke  out  of  the  grave.  It  startled  Sophy  with  reminis 
cence.  It  startled  Loring  by  its  sheer,  concentrated  ma 
turity  of  scorn  and  hatred. 

' '  Mother, ' '  came  the  low  voice,  ' '  let  him  beat  me.  Then 
maybe  you'll  hate  him,  too.  ..." 

Loring  stood  a  second,  dumfounded,  then  he  withdrew 
his  arms  sharply. 

"Well  I'm.  damned!"  exclaimed  the  man,  staring  at  the 
child  who  had  spoken  with  all  the  condensed  feeling  of  a 
man.  Then  he  laughed  suddenly — the  bitter,  sneering 
laugh  that  Sophy  had  come  to  dread.  He  turned  on  his 
heel. 

"Take  your  little  Chesney  brute,"  he  said  as  he  turned 
away.  "I  guess  he'll  prove  about  as  much  a  comfort  as 
your  big  Chesney  did  ! ' ' 

He  sauntered  out  upon  the  sea-lawn,  whistling. 

But  Bobby  was  both  punished  and  brought  to  reason 
by  his  mother.  It  was  easy  to  punish  him  far  more  ef 
fectively  and  severely  than  by  a  whipping.  Bobby  had 
sustained  spankings  from  his  earliest  infancy  with  true 
British  stoicism.  What  his  mother  did  was  to  make  him 
give  the  lame  puppy  to  the  gardener's  little  girl  and  pro 
vide  her  with  five  cents  weekly  out  of  his  allowance  of  ten 
cents,  for  the  puppy's  maintenance.  To  induce  him  to 
apologise  properly  to  his  step-father  was  another  matter. 
When  Sophy  told  him  that  he  must  go  to  Loring  and  say 
that  he  was  sorry  for  the  dreadful  thing  that  he  had  done, 
Bobby  became  mutinous. 

"But  I  am  not  sorry,"  he  protested.  "I  'joyed  biting 
him." 

"It  hurts  mother  to  hear  you  say  that — but  that's  not 
the  question.  What  I  hope  my  little  boy  is  sorry  for  is  for 
not  having  been  a  gentleman — for  having  behaved  like  a 
wild  animal.  Even  the  poor  puppy  behaved  better  than 
you  did.  He  didn't  bite  like  a  little  tiger.  ..." 

"I'd  a  bit  bigger  if  I'd  been  a  tagger,"  said  Bobby 
thoughtfully.  "  I  'd  a  bit  his  han '  off,  I  reckon. ' ' 

"That's  not  the  question  either.  Aren't  you  sorry  that 
you  weren't  a  gentleman?" 

Bobby  pondered  this.    Finally  he  said : 

"I'm  very  tangled  inside  of  me,  mother.  I  am  sorry  I 
didn't  be  a  gentleman,  but  I  am  not  sorry  I  bited  him." 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  363 

Sophy  took  a  deep  breath.  She  put  a  hand  on  either  of 
her  son's  shoulders,  and  held  him  fixed  in  front  of  her. 

"Now  listen,  Bobby,"  she  said.  "I  won't  have  any 
more  arguments.  You  are  to  go  to  Morris,  at  once,  and  say 
this:  'I  am  sorry  I  was  so  naughty  and  ungentlemanly. 
I  beg  your  pardon. '  Now  go.  Morris  is  out  there  on  the 
lawn  reading  a  paper.  Go  there  and  say  those  words 
straight  out  like  a  man." 

Bobby  gazed  earnestly  into  her  eyes,  found  something 
in  their  grey  depths  that  always  conquered  him  in  the 
end,  and  turned  soberly  away. 

He  went  and  stood  before  Loring,  his  hands  behind  his 
back.  His  face  was  very  red.  His  heart  filled  up  his  chest 
and  scorched  it  so  that  he  could  scarcely  speak. 

"Hullo,  little  mad-dog,"  said  Loring,  looking  at  him 
over  his  paper.  "Haven't  they  muzzled  you  yet?  Keep 
your  distance,  please." 

The  boy  looked  stolidly  at  him. 

"I've  come  to  pollygise, "  he  said. 

"Oh,  you  have,  have  you?  Suppose  I  don't  accept  your 
'pollygy'T" 

"Then  I'll  jus'  have  to  leave  it  with  you,"  said  the  boy 
haughtily.  "This  is  it:  'I  am  sorry  I  didn't  be  a  gentle 
man.  I  beg  your  pardon' — but  mother  made  me  do  it," 
he  added  all  in  the  same  breath.  Then  he  turned  and 
walked  swiftly  away.  His  red  curls  were  getting  a  beauti 
ful  copper-beech  colour  as  he  grew  older.  Loring,  watch 
ing  his  retreat,  wondered  if  Chesney  had  had  that  colour 
hair.  The  firm  little  nape  with  its  "duck-tails"  of  pur 
plish-red  curls  filled  him  with  detestation.  Bobby  was  going 
to  be  a  huge  man,  like  his  father.  He  was  as  tall  at  six  as 
most  boys  of  eight. 

"And  he  gets  off  with  an  apology!"  thought  Loring 
angrily.  He  was  as  severe  in  his  ideas  of  the  training  of 
children  as  are  most  men  who  have  been  badly  spoilt  them 
selves.  His  hands  fairly  ached  to  whip  Cecil  Chesney 's 
son. 

But  he  was  mollified  when  he  found  that  the  boy  had 
been  punished,  in  what  Sophy  assured  him  was  a  far  more 
painful  way  than  any  mere  whipping  would  have  been. 


364  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 


XIX 

LORING  had  got  over  the  first  novelty  of  having  the  moon 
descend  to  his  crying.  Selene  was  now  a  domesticated 
planet.  They  moved  in  the  same  orbit.  He  felt,  without 
realising  it,  somewhat  as  a  lover  might  feel  who,  while 
gazing  entranced  at  the  silver  disk  in  mid-heaven,  sud 
denly  finds  himself  transported  among  the  Mountains  of 
the  Moon.  The  lunar  landscape,  thus  familiarly  envis 
aged,  struck  him  as  a  little  bleak.  There  was  nothing 
"chummy"  about  Sophy,  he  decided.  He  had  always, 
thought  it  would  be  great  fun  to  drink  wine  freely  with 
the  woman  one  wras  in  love  with.  A  "bully"  dinner  after 
hunting,  or  a  cosy  supper  after  the  play,  with  plenty  of 
champagne  to  enliven  it.  Champagne  added  such  zest  to 
kisses.  He  felt  aggrieved  that  Sophy  did  not  care  for  this 
form  of  bliss.  She  said  that  wine  "blurred"  her.  Such  a 
rum  expression !  He  thought  her  prudish.  He  told  her  so 
on  one  occasion. 

"Look  here,  Goddess,"  he  said  fretfully.  "You  run 
your  temple-business  in  the  ground.  You  treat  love- 
making  like  a  religious  ceremony.  Hang  it! — I  can't  feel 
like  Cupid's  high-priest  all  the  year  'round.  Love  ought 
to  be  just  a  bully  sort  of  spree  sometimes." 

Sophy  had  said,  flushing: 

"I'm  sorry  I  seem  priggish.  But  I'm  afraid  I'll  never 
be  able  to  look  on  love  as  'just  a  bully  sort  of  spree.'  ' 

Loring  had  flushed,  too. 

"Well  ...  a  chap  can't  go  on  playing  Endymion  for 
ever.  I  suppose  there  was  an  end  even  to  the  Moon's 
honeymoon ! ' ' 

It  was  after  dinner  one  evening  during  the  next  winter. 
As  usual,  he  had  been  drinking  freely.  This  ahvays  made 
him  either  amorous  or  irritable.  As  she  would  not  endure 
the  amorousness,  irritability  invariably  resulted.  Sophy 
was  by  this  time  frankly  unhappy.  But  no  one  guessed  it 
— not  even  Loring.  She  had  come  to  feel  the  full  weight 
of  that  family  remark :  ' '  Morry  has  such  a  strong  will ! ' ' 
She  had  found  that  this  will  of  his  was  far  stronger  than 
his  love  for  her.  Yet  he  loved  her  still.  At  times  even 
the  old  feeling  of  worship  gave  him  pause  for  an  instant. 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  365 

But  the  steady  drinking — cocktails  before  meals,  whiskey- 
and-soda  in  between  meals — dulled  the  edge  of  finer  senti 
ment.  And  he  resented  passionately  the  disapproval  that 
her  very  silence  on  the  subject  evinced. 

At  first  she  had  spoken  out  to  him  about  it — with  affec 
tion,  honestly,  as  one  good  friend  might  speak  to  another — 
but  when  she  found  how  useless  it  was,  she  did  not  ' '  nag. ' ' 
And  she  was  never  "superior"  in  her  manner  towards 
him. 

However,  no  one,  living  in  the  close  intimacy  of  mar 
riage  with  another,  can  loathe  a  thing  as  Sophy  loathed 
this  constant  tippling  of  her  husband,  without  the  offender 
being  aware  of  that  unexpressed  detestation. 

He  grew  quite  callous  about  it  as  time  went  by,  but 
during  this  second  winter  of  their  marriage  it  made  him 
very  ugly  with  her  at  times. 

And  Sophy  had  a  bitter,  ironic  feeling  when  she  faced 
the  fact  of  this  sordid,  reduced  replica  of  the  tragedy  of 
her  first  marriage.  That  had  had  the  dignity  of  real  peril, 
at  least,  but  this  brought  her  only  the  ignominy  of  acute 
discomfort  and  at  times  humiliation. 

She  suffered  intensely.  That  he  could  not  have  under 
stood  this  suffering,  even  had  she  explained  it,  made  her 
sometimes  a  little  over-proud  and  cold.  He  had  his  full 
share  of  the  discomfort.  In  less  exacting  hands,  he  would 
have  made  a  rather  easy-going  if  utterly  selfish  husband. 
The  climate  of  Olympus  did  not  at  all  agree  with  his  con 
stitution.  In  the  legend,  it  is  said  that  Endymion,  after 
his  marriage  with  Selene,  was  cast  out  of  Olympus  by  the 
wrathful  Zeus,  for  making  love  to  Hera.  This  lapse  was 
probably  caused  by  the  too  exacting  standard  that  Selene 
held  up  to  her  earthly  spouse. 

But  they  clashed  also  in  other  ways.  There  was  a  cer 
tain  strain  of  unconventionality  in  Sophy,  that  often  out 
raged  Loring's  extreme  conventionality  of  outlook.  He 
had  found  it  "swagger"  and  amusing  that  she  should 
choose  to  embellish  an  old  house  in  Washington  Square, 
rather  than  follow  the  social  bell-wether  "up  to  the  Park." 
That  had  been  a  "swell"  attitude  in  its  way.  But  there 
were  certain  unwritten  laws  of  "smart"  propriety,  which 
to  break,  he  felt,  was  to  risk  being  ridiculous.  lie  would 
have  chosen  death  cheerfully  at  any  time,  rather  than  seem 
ridiculous.  Sophy  felt  otherwise.  As  long  as  she  herself 


366  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

did  not  consider  what  she  did  ridiculous,  she  did  not  think 
at  all  of  the  opinion  of  ' '  society. ' ' 


XX 

BUT  all  these  frictions,  and  changes,  and  readjustments 
of  vision  did  not  come  in  a  steady  progression.  The  un 
folding  of  their  inner  life  followed  intricate  spirals,  re 
turned  on  itself,  coiled  outward  again.  Sometimes  Sophy 
found  herself  standing  breathless  in  a  glow  of  the  old 
glamour,  that  fell  on  her  as  if  through  a  far  window  in  the 
past,  reflected  back  from  the  blank  wall  of  the  present. 
Then  she  would  think  that  perhaps  the  man  that  he  had 
seemed  in  their  first  love-days  was  the  real  man,  and  this 
Morris  only  the  result  of  their  hectic,  vapid  life.  Again, 
she  would  wonder  if  he  had  really  ever  been  what  she  had 
dreamed  him,  even  then.  It  was  as  if  some  rare  spirit  had 
"possessed"  him  for  the  time  being.  Or  was  it  that  love 
had  transfigured  him?  She  could  not  bridge  with  her 
reason  the  gulf  that  lay  between  his  past  and  his  present 
personality. 

Then  as  the  months  passed,  and  he  grew  more  and  more 
relaxed  and  slovenly  of  spirit  under  the  ease  of  possession, 
she  came  to  think  that  he  had  never  been  Endymion  at  all. 
She  had  loved  a  wraith,  a  seeming.  She  did  not  realise 
that  sometimes  love  works  temporary  miracles,  even  as 
religion  does;  that  love  also  makes  conversions  which  are 
very  real  for  the  moment,  but  that  cannot  stand  the  wear 
of  every  day. 

But  when  the  final  realisation  came,  Sophy  felt  as  if 
life  were  over  for  her.  Love  had  seemed  the  only  real  life ; 
now  love  was  over.  She  sat  alone  in  her  bedroom  one  night, 
thinking :  ' '  Love  is  over  .  .  .  love  is  over  ..."  She  felt 
such  anguish  at  this  thought  as  drove  her  to  her  feet.  She 
went  and  stood  at  her  window,  looking  out  at  the  bare 
trees  in  the  Square  and  the  cross  of  electric  lights  against 
the  sky,  made  dark  purple  by  contrast  with  the  orange 
glow.  She  felt  as  if  it  were  too  much  to  bear — this  second 
terrible  mistake.  And  yet,  what  escape  was  there?  It 
seemed  to  her  that  there  was  no  escape.  Her  misery  was 
all  the  more  terrible  because  life  had  given  her  a  second 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  367 

chance,  as  it  were — and  for  a  second  time  she  had  built 
her  House  of  Love  upon  the  sands.  Vain  regret  stole  over 
her  like  lava.  It  spread  barrenness.  Once  more  her  cre 
ative  gift  lay  strangled  under  the  ashes  of  her  own  mis 
take. 

She  thought:  "This  is  age — this  devastated  feeling.  I 
am  really  old  now.  I  am  only  thirty-two,  but  I  could  not 
feel  older  in  spirit  if  I  were  eighty." 

Her  affection  for  him  only  made  this  death  of  deeper 
love  more  terrible.  As  in  a  pale  shadow-play,  she  saw  her 
shadow-self,  repeating  the  role  that  she  had  once  enacted 
in  a  more  vivid  drama — the  role  of  wife  to  a  man  whom 
she  had  ceased  to  love,  but  towards  whom  she  felt  a  com 
passionate  affection.  There  is  no  part  in  the  tragi-comedy 
of  life  that  requires  such  terrific  powers  of  acting. 

And  to  this  exigent  demand  was  added  the  pang  of 
self-ridicule.  Life  had  given  her  the  talisman  of  experi 
ence  to  guard  her — and  this  was  what  she  had  done  with  it. 
She  blushed  hot,  remembering  suddenly  the  love-songs 
that  she  had  written  when  he  was  in  Florida.  It  was  an 
guish  to  think  that  what  she  had  believed  with  all  her 
being  was  only  a  love-sick  fancy. 

She  stood  thinking,  her  eyes  on  the  cross  of  electric 
lights.  She  stared  at  it  so  long  that  when  she  looked 
away  it  shone  green  on  the  purple  dusk — a  cross  of  glow 
worms. 

She  thought  of  Eichard  Garnett's  words:  "Then  is 
Love  blessed,  when  from  the  cup  of  the  body  he  drinks 
the  wine  of  the  soul. ' '  This  had  been  her  dream  of  love — 
twice  over.  But  from  the  cup  of  the  body  she  had  drunk 
only  the  gall  of  the  senses.  And,  again  and  again,  she 
went  back  in  wondering  memory  to  that  time  of  beglam- 
ourment.  The  words  of  the  first  sonnet  she  had  ever  sent 
him,  painted  it  clearly.  Line  by  line,  the  sonnet  came  back 
to  her: 


"After  long  years  of  slowly  starved  desire, 
Within  this  shell  of  me  myself  lay  sped: 
My  life  was  wrought  of  birthdays  of  the  dead; 
I  slept  on  graves.     You  came.     My  spirit's  fire 
Leapt  into  light  and  showed  Despair  a  liar: 

You  came — and  all  Death 's  ashen  wine  blushed  red. 
Your  eyes  drank  mine:    I  trembled — not  with  dread, 
But  like  a  lute-string  sharply  tuned  higher. 


368 

— And  I  am  mocked  by  wistful  dreams  of  old, 
As  winter  by  a  bright  mirage  of  flowers. 

My  vanished  Spring  lives  in  your  eyes'  dear  blue. 
My  maiden  faith  is  by  your  lips  retold — 

Long,  long  ago  drained  out  my  purple  hours — 

Lo!  in  your  hand  Love's  hour-glass  brimmed  anew!" 

Despite  all  her  idealism,  however,  Sophy  had  that  sort 
of  dogged  courage  which  sets  its  teeth  and  digs  in  the  bed 
rock  of  life  for  hid  lessons.  She  did  not  intend  to  go  dole 
fully  inert  like  the  poor  wights  in  the  Hall  of  Eblis,  with 
her  hand  always  over  the  flame  of  pain  in  her  heart.  "Very 
well,"  she  addressed  Life  in  her  thought.  "You  have 
done  this  to  me.  Now  what  is  your  meaning?  I  am  not 
one  of  those  who  think  your  doings  like  the  'tale  told  by 
an  idiot,  full  of  sound  and  fury,  signifying  nothing.'  I 
believe  your  grimmest  practical  jokes  have  an  inner  mean 
ing.  "Why  did  you  cheat  me  with  love  a  second  time? 
"Why,  when  I  had  given  up  all  thought  of  love,  and  won  a 
tranquil,  clear  content  of  spirit,  did  you  send  love  to 
trample  my  secret  garden  like  a  dark  angel  in  a  whirl 
wind?" 

She  came  to  the  conclusion  that  life  means  something 
vaster  and  more  splendid  than  a  restored  Eden,  where  one 
man  and  one  woman  walk  together  guarded  in  their  bliss 
ful  isolation  by  the  flaming  sword  of  selfishness.  "Come 
forth  of  that ! ' '  thunders  the  Voice  that  is  not  one  love  but 
All  Love.  And  so  Life  hales  us  by  the  hair,  out  of  our 
little  palaces  of  dreams.  And  we  are  driven  naked  into 
the  desert  of  reality.  And  when  we  have  read  aright  what 
is  written  in  the  desert  sands — behold !  the  desert  blossoms 
like  the  rose. 

But  this  writing  was  not  yet  clear  to  Sophy.  She  toiled 
through  the  hot,  clogging  sands,  and  what  was  traced  upon 
them  seemed  to  her  only  the  wranton  hieroglyphics  of  the 
wind  .  .  .  the  wild  wind  that  blew  men  and  women  hither 
and  thither  like  rootless  stalks.  Yet  she  believed  in  this 
vaster  and  more  splendid  meaning  that  Life  kept  hidden, 
under  all  its  dark  pranks  and  sardonic  jesting.  She  im 
agined  Life,  in  those  days,  as  a  huge,  Afrit  clown,  under 
whose  motley  is  secreted  the  Seal  of  Solomon.  If  one 
could  but  survive  the  horrid  rough-and-tumble  of  his  sin 
ister  game,  one  would  be  able,  in  the  end,  to  snatch  away 
the  magic  seal  at  whose  touch  all  mysteries  open. 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  369 

That  spring  brought  a  new  difficulty.  Lady  Wychcote 's 
letters  on  the  subject  of  seeing  her  grandson  had  become 
very  pressing  of  late.  In  February  she  had  been  quite  ill. 
Now  in  her  convalescence  she  wrote  more  urgently  than 
ever,  saying  that  she  felt  she  had  a  right  to  ask  that  her 
only  grandchild  should  not  be  kept  away  from  her  any 
longer.  She  asked  (her  request  was  almost  in  the  form  of 
a  demand)  that  Sophy  would  bring  Cecil's  son  to  England 
some  time  during  that  spring  or  summer.  Sophy  felt  the 
justice  of  this  request.  She  felt  that  she  owed  its  fulfil 
ment  to  Cecil's  mother — that  she  really  had  no  right  to 
keep  Bobby  apart  from  her  indefinitely. 

And  yet,  when  she  thought  of  a  visit  to  England  and  all 
that  it  involved,  she  winced  from  it  in  her  most  secret 
fibres. 


XXI 

THE  more  Sophy  thought  of  this  visit  to  England,  the  more 
she  shrank  from  it  and  the  more  obligatory  she  felt  it  to 
be.  She  dreaded  it  for  many  reasons.  The  meeting  with 
Lady  Wychcote  would  be  painful  in  the  extreme.  She 
could  imagine  those  hard  eyes  as  though  they  were  already 
fastened  on  her.  And  then  Morris — how  would  Lady 
Wychcote  behave  to  Morris,  should  they  be  thrown  to 
gether?  How,  indeed,  would  Morris  behave  to  Lady  Wych 
cote?  Sophy  hoped  ardently  that  he  would  not  go  with 
her.  She  hoped  it,  not  only  on  this  account,  but  because 
it  seemed  dreadful  to  her  that  she  should  appear  in  London 
again,  after  five  years  of  absence,  as  the  wife  of  another 
man.  She  had  left  England  in  the  dignity  of  a  great 
tragedy;  she  would  return  to  it  as  the  wife  of  an  Ameri 
can  millionaire,  "ages  younger  than  she  is,  my  dear." 
And  Morris — how  would  Morris  seem,  thus  transplanted? 
He  had  been  to  England  before,  of  course ;  but  he  knew 
few  of  the  people  among  whom  her  lot  there  had  been 
cast.  His  English  acquaintances  were  all  of  the  ultra 
sporting  sort. 

She  tried  to  fancy  him  at  lunch  or  dinner  with  the  Arun- 
dels.  What  would  he  make  of  that  political  and  literary 
atmosphere  ? 

But  what  filled  her  with  the  keenest  dread  of  all,  when 


370  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

facing  the  possibility  of  Morris's  going  with  her,  was  the 
fact  of  his  constant  drinking.  Here  in  America  it  was  the 
custom  of  his  class  and  set.  But  there — no.  Some  Eng 
lishmen  were  "hard  drinkers,"  certainly — but  it  was  the 
exception  and  not  the  rule. 

But  then  again — perhaps  all  this  anxiety  on  her  part 
was  quite  useless.  Most  probably  Morris  would  dislike  the 
idea  of  spending  a  month  in  England,  just  when  polo  on 
Long  Island  was  at  its  best.  She  determined  to  put  it  to 
him  that  evening.  She  did  so  as  they  drove  home  from  the 
opera. 

He  lowered  at  first,  then  suddenly  became  amiable. 
Sophy 's  heart  sank. 

"By  Jove!"  he  exclaimed,  laughing.  "Now  that  I  think 
of  it,  I  rather  like  the  idea.  It  will  be  bully  fun  showing 
you  off  to  those  highbrow  Britishers  as  Mrs.  Morris  Loring 
of  New  York! — I've  had  it  rubbed  in  on  the  raw  often 
enough,  that  you  were  formerly  'the  Honourable  Mrs. 
Cecil  Chesney.'  : 

They  sailed  for  England  on  the  last  day  of  April. 
Loring  was  in  his  best  mood.  Sophy  felt  as  if  in  a  queer 
spiritual  catalepsy.  It  was  as  if  Destiny  had  clutched  her 
in  a  numbing  grasp  and  bundled  her  hither  and  thither 
against  her  will. 

Lady  Wychcote  was  settled  in  her  house  in  Carlton 
Gardens  for  the  Season,  and  the  morning  after  Sophy's 
arrival  she  took  Bobby  to  see  his  grandmother.  Her  lady 
ship 's  face  had  aged  somewhat,  but  her  figure  was  as 
young  as  ever.  She  came  forward  with  hand  extended,  and 
said  "How  d'ye  do?"  as  though  she  and  Sophy  had  parted 
only  yesterday.  Then  she  sat  down  and  drew  Bobby  to  her 
knees. 

"So  you  are  Robert  Chesney,  eh?"  she  asked. 

The  boy  looked  up  into  her  face. 

"Yes,  grandmother,"  he  said  gravely. 

"And  of  what  are  you  thinking  when  you  stare  at  me 
with  such  solemn  eyes?"  she  went  on,  trying  to  smile  and 
speak  naturally.  There  was  something  in  the  boy's  whole 
air  and  appearance  so  like  his  father  that  she  was  much 
shaken  by  it. 

Bobby  had  one  of  those  direct  impulses  of  childhood  that 
resemble  inspiration. 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  371 

"I  was  thinking  that  you're  a  quite  young  lady  to  be  a 
grandmother, ' '  he  replied  politely. 

This  was  the  beginning  of  a  real  friendship  between  the 
two,  for  Lady  Wychcote  also  had  an  inspiration.  She  rose 
abruptly,  went  to  her  escritoire,  and  unlocking  a  little 
drawer,  took  out  a  small  parcel  wrapped  in  silver  paper. 

"Robert,"  she  said,  "I  think  that  what  I'm  going  to 
give  you  will  please  you  very  much."  And  now  a  very 
human,  kindly  smile  flickered  over  her  thin  lips  as  she 
added :  "At  least,  it  would  please  me  if  I  were  a  little  boy. 
It's  dangerous,  it's  real,  and  it's  something  a  real  man  has 
used." 

Bobby  took  it  from  her.  His  face  went  pale  with  excite 
ment.  His  fingers  fumbled  over  the  wrapping  in  his  eager 
ness. 

"  Is  it  ...  is  it  ...  a  spear  ? "  he  managed. 

"A  good  guess,"  said  his  grandmother;  "but  not  quite 
right,  ..." 

Then  the  last  layer  of  paper  came  away,  and  in  his 
hands  was  a  little  Arab  dagger,  in  a  sheath  crusted  with 
coral  and  turquoise.  He  went  red  now — and  when  he  drew 
out  the  blade,  and  saw  that  it  was  indeed  real  and  danger 
ous,  he  had  a  breathless  moment  of  utter  stillness,  then 
turned  and  threw  himself  into  Lady  Wychcote 's  arms. 

"Oh,  thank  you  .  .  .  thank  you!"  he  cried.  "I  think 
you  must  be  the  most  splendid  grandmother  in  the 
world!" 

"It  was  your  father's,  when  he  was  a  lad  .  .  .  like 
you, ' '  she  murmured  rather  indistinctly.  As  so  often  hap 
pens  in  life,  the  recrudescence  of  maternal  feeling  for  this 
grandson  was  stronger  than  what  she  had  originally  felt 
for  her  own  sons. 

Sophy  was  relieved  and  glad  over  the  turn  that  things 
had  taken.  She  had  feared  that  the  two  strong  wills  might 
clash  in  some  unfortunate  way,  even  at  first. 

When,  later,  Lady  Wychcote  suggested  that  the  boy  had 
"rather  an  American  accent,"  and  that  an  English  tutor 
would,  in  her  opinion,  be  "advisable,"  Sophy  acquiesced 
at  once  and  said  that  she  intended  going  to  Oxford  to  con 
sult  Cecil's  old  tutor,  Mr.  Greyson,  on  the  subject. 

That  same  afternoon,  Gerald  called  at  Claridge's  to  see 
Sophy  and  his  nephew.  Bobby  approved  of  his  Uncle 


372  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

Gerald.    Not  so  Loring,  who  came  in  a  few  minutes  before 
Lord  Wychcote  left. 

"Great  Scott!  What  a  'lemon'!"  he  exclaimed,  as  the 
door  closed.  "I  guess  Bobby  will  be  a  lord  some  day  all 
right-o." 

"Ah,  please  don't,  Morris!"  Sophy  said.  "Gerald  is 
one  of  the  best  friends  I've  ever  had." 

'Friend'!"  cried  Loring,  going  into  peals  of  laughter. 
"  'Friend'  is  good.  Why,  he's  so  gone  on  you  that  a 
blind  man  could  see  it.  Lemon-Squash — that's  what  he  is. 
He's  so  sweet  on  you  he  isn't  just  plain  lemon." 

And  from  that  hour,  Loring  never  alluded  to  Gerald 
"Wychcote  as  anything  but  "Lemon-Squash." 

As  soon  as  she  knew  that  Sophy  was  in  England,  Olive 
Arundel  rushed  to  see  her.  She  was  really  fond  of  Sophy. 
It  made  not  the  slightest  difference  that  they  had  ex 
changed  only  four  or  five  letters  in  six  years.  The  old 
friendship  was  taken  up  exactly  where  it  had  been  dropped 
through  force  of  circumstance.  So  it  was  with  all  of 
Sophy's  other  friendships.  English  people  are  like  this. 
It  is  one  of  their  most  delightful  traits. 

But  Olive  was  frankly  curious  about  Loring.  She  was 
dying  to  see  him,  she  said.  She  was  so  keen  to  see  the  man 
that  had  made  Sophy  forget  her  "twagic  life  with  poor, 
dear  Cecil." 

Sophy  flushed  and  laughed  a  little  too.  And  she  felt 
also  like  weeping.  Olive  brought  the  past  to  her  more 
vividly  than  anything  had  done  as  yet — even  her  meeting 
with  Lady  Wychcote.  She  had  changed  very  little.  Her 
figure  and  face  were  both  fuller,  but  still  very  lovely.  She 
used  as  many  gestures,  as  much  perfume,  as  ever — yet  she 
was  every  inch  a  lady — even  a  great  lady. 

Sophy  asked  about  John  Arundel  and  his  "career." 

"Oh,  my  dear  Sophy!"  cried  his  wife.  "Don't  mention 
the  word  'Caweer'  to  me.  .  .  .  You  American  women  are 
so  fortunate  in  not  having  to  sit  up  night  and  day  with 
your  husbands'  'Caweers. '  Why,  even  on  our  honeymoon 
Jack  carried  along  those  howid  red-boxes!  For  hours  he'd 
shut  himself  up  alone  with  them.  .  .  .  But  thanks,  dear — 
he 's  getting  along  nicely — he  and  his  '  Caweer. '  Ouf !  what 
a  dull  year  this  has  been  in  Parliament!  The  only  inter 
esting  things  have  taken  place  in  foreign  parts,  and  the 
House  of  Commons  never  takes  much  interest  in  foreign 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  373 

and  colonial  affairs,  you  know.  It  loves  to  get  wrought  up 
over  home  questions — party  rows,  and  that  sort  of  thing. 
Fancy  what  it's  been  like  when  all  they've  had  to  debate 
over — poor  dears ! — was  Vaccination  and  Calf-lymph  and 
the  Benefices  Bill ! ' ' 

Oh,  how  strange  it  seemed  to  Sophy,  thus  to  be  sitting 
and  listening  to  Olive's  political  "patter"!  Before  she 
knew  it,  a  whole  world  of  thought  had  risen  about  her,  as 
at  the  rubbing  of  a  magic  lamp.  Olive  rose  at  last,  saying: 

"It's  really  too  bad  of  your  Pwince  Charming  not  to 
come  in  while  I'm  here.  But  I'll  see  him  at  dinner  to 
morrow.  I'm  so  glad,  my  Sweet,  that  you're  happy  at 
last!" 

She  embraced  Sophy  twice,  kissed  her  impulsively,  and 
was  gone. 

"Happy  at  last!" 

Sophy  stood  where  Olive  had  left  her — moving  her  slim 
shoe  slightly  from  side  to  side.  She  gazed  at  the  hotel 
carpet  which  was  strewn  with  little  grey  roses.  She 
counted  those  that  lay  near  her  feet.  First  from  left  to 
right,  then  from  right  to  left.  As  long  as  she  counted 
carefully,  she  could  not  think  clearly.  She  did  not  want 
to  think  clearly.  She  felt  as  though  buried  alive  under  a 
glittering  wreck.  It  was  the  palace  of  her  own  life  that 
had  crumbled  about  her.  She  was  cramped  in  a  tiny  space. 
Air  came  to  her  through  chinks  in  the  shattered  fabric. 
Food  was  passed  to  her  through  these  interstices.  But  she 
must  crouch  very  still  in  one  position  till  she  died.  .  .  . 


XXII 

THE  first  part  of  her  stay  in  England  was  more  endurable, 
however,  than  she  had  thought  possible.  Loring  was 
rather  subdued  by  the  "highbrows,"  though  he  carried  it 
off  in  private  to  her  with  an  air  of  indulgent  toleration  for 
the  "fool  ceremoniousness"  of  an  "effete"  civilisation. 
The  greater  number  of  her  friends  and  acquaintances  he 
characterised  as  "lemons."  He  said  there  was  not  a 
"shred  of  snap  or  go  in  the  whole  bunch  of  them,"  that 
they  made  him  long  to  "yowl"  and  fire  off  pistols  in  Pic 
cadilly.  One  exception  he  made,  however,  in  favour  of 
the  Premier.  "Fine  old  boy,"  he  said.  "Can't  exactly 


374  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

call  him  a  lemon  .  .  .  but  he  leans  that  way.  I  guess  I'll 
have  to  class  him  as  a  citron — a  rarer  product  of  the  lemon 
variety,  you  know." 

It  is  not  only  the  husband  who  feels  a  sense  of  responsi 
bility  in  marriage.  This  feeling  of  being  responsible  for 
Loring  as  the  man  whom  she  had  chosen  for  her  mate  out 
of  all  the  world,  after  such  a  dire  first  marriage,  kept 
Sophy  taut  with  apprehension.  Every  time  that  they  went 
out  together  she  was  in  nervous  dread  lest  he  should  ' '  bust 
loose,"  as  he  sometimes  threatened,  and  take  some  undue 
liberty  of  speech  with  one  of  the  "highbrows"  that  so  op 
pressed  him.  One  thing,  however,  gave  her  great  comfort: 
It  was  that  he  was  careful  not  to  drink  too  freely.  The 
"pomp  and  circumstance"  that  bored  him  to  extinction 
had  at  least  the  good  effect  of  restraining  him  in  this  re 
spect,  and  his  male-pride  could  not  but  glow  pleasantly  at 
the  way  in  which  he  found  his  wife  considered.  And  he 
was  immensely  gratified — until  one  day  it  occurred  to  him 
that  he  was  being  assigned  the  role  of  "Mrs.  Loring 's  hus 
band."  Then  in  a  burst  of  inner  resentment  he  deter 
mined  to  shake  himself  free  of  the  singular  spell  which 
great  names  and  personages  had  cast  over  his  usual  spirits, 
and  "be  himself."  His  mood  became  aggressively  Amer 
ican.  "Old  Glory"  seemed  to  fill  his  blood  with  stars.  He 
had  had  enough  of  doing  in  Britain  as  the  Britons  did. 
He  began  to  take  whiskey-and-soda  between  meals,  just  as 
in  New  York.  When  they  dined  out,  he  had  a  cocktail  at 
the  hotel  before  leaving.  But  though  Sophy  saw  this  with 
a  quailing  heart,  he  did  not  go  beyond  bounds,  as  at  home, 
only  the  return  to  customary  uses  made  his  spirits  soar 
and  rendered  him  rather  garrulous  at  times.  Still,  Loring 
was  no  fool.  The  fount  of  talk  thus  loosened  had  a  cer 
tain  crude  and  pungent  novelty  that  diverted  the  soberer 
English  very  much.  He  found  his  new  role  vastly  divert 
ing  himself.  He  thought  it  "bully  fun"  to  "poke  up  the 
highbrows."  But  Sophy  writhed,  for  she  saw  clearly  what 
did  not  even  glimmer  on  his  consciousness — the  fact  that 
the  "highbrows"  oftener  laughed  at  than  with  him.  She 
tried  on  one  occasion  to  make  him  realise  this  without  of 
fending  him.  But  she  need  not  have  troubled  as  to  how 
he  would  regard  her  suggestion.  He  took  it  with  lordly 
superiority. 

"Bless  you,   Goddess!  .  .  .  you  don't  know  your  own 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  375 

little  old  British  world  a  bit !  'Laugh  at  me'?  Why  not? 
I  mean  'em  to.  I  bust  panes  in  their  old  window-sash  of 
conventions  and  let  in  God's  outer  air!  I'm  the  cyclone- 
blast  from  Columbia's  fresh  and  verdant  shore!  They  like 
it,  you  squeamish  dear — they  like  it!  I  beard  the  British 
lion  in  his  den  and  he  purrs ! ' ' 

Sophy  had  said,  laughing  helplessly: 

"I'm  afraid  that  when  a  lion  'purrs'  it's  really  a  sort 
of  growling." 

' '  Nerer  you  fear !  Just  you  leave  it  to  me,  Old  Thing ! ' ' 
Loring  had  replied  easily. 

This  bit  of  slang  endearment  which  he  had  picked  up 
of  late  grated  on  Sophy,  until  it  was  almost  impossible  for 
her  to  keep  from  flashing  out  at  him  when  he  used  it.  She 
said  nothing,  however,  reflecting  that  the  reason  she  so 
detested  it  was  probably  because  she  was  too  "old"  to 
enjoy  being  called  "old"  in  fun. 

It  was  during  Ascot  week  which  they  spent  with  the 
Arundels  at  their  place  on  the  River  that  Loring  surpassed 
himself  in  his  game  of  "poking  up  the  highbrows."  It 
was  at  luncheon.  There  were  about  twenty  people  present 
— some  very  important  Personages  among  them.  Loring 
was  feeling  especially  "full  of  beans."  A  famous  beauty 
had  coaxed  him  into  making  "American  drinks"  for  the 
whole  party  before  luncheon.  She  thought  them  "rip 
ping"!  She  was  a  very  sporting  beauty,  and  Loring  was 
enjoying  himself,  what  with  the  races  and  one  thing  and 
another,  more  than  he  had  believed  it  possible  to  enjoy 
one's  self  in  England  away  from  the  'Shires  in  the  hunt 
ing  season.  The  American  cocktails  had  a  succes  de  curi- 
osite.  Loring,  himself,  took  two.  At  luncheon  he  was  in 
high  feather.  The  beauty  egged  him  on.  He  began  to 
give  thumb-nail  sketches  of  the  characters  of  those  present. 
Sophy's  sensations  were  indescribable.  Not  a  "highbrow" 
did  her  husband  spare.  In  pithy,  American  slang  he  set 
forth,  amid  the  laughter  even  of  the  victims  themselves, 
what  he  considered  their  chief  characteristics.  Nimbly 
piling  Ossa  on  Pelion,  he  capped  the  whole  with  Vesuvius, 
by  pointing  a  finger  at  a  stern,  iron-clad,  reserved  and  ven 
erable  member  of  the  Opposition,  and  announcing:  "You 
do  the  benevolent  patriarch  act  to  a  T ;  but  deep  down- 
gad  ! — you're  foxy!" 

The  "benevolent  patriarch"  himself,  after  a  gleam  of 


876  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

i 

surprise  such  as  might  have  stirred  the  countenance  of 
Moses,  had  a  gentile  youth  suddenly  made  a  pied  de  nez 
at  him,  gazed  inscrutably.  The  table  rocked  with  sup 
pressed  and  somewhat  scared  laughter.  Sophy  felt  bathed 
in  flame.  She  knew  that  Majesty  itself  would  not  have 
adopted  a  jesting  tone  with  the  Being  whom  Loring  had 
just  called  ' '  foxy. ' '  That  this  Superior  Being  in  all  prob 
ability  was  "foxy"  did  not  at  all  mend  matters. 

She  had  stayed  on  for  Ascot  week  because  Loring  had 
wished  it.  She  now  determined  to  return  to  America  as 
soon  as  possible.  She  had  never  suffered  in  just  this  way 
before.  She  found  it  almost  as  excruciating  as  the  death 
of  love  had  been.  She  marvelled  at  the  endless  variety  of 
pain. 

That  night  Olive  came  to  her  bedroom  for  a  private  chat. 
She  had  slipped  on  a  dressing-gown  and  brought  her  cig 
arette-case  with  her,  so  Sophy  knew  that  she  had  "things 
on  her  mind"  which  she  meant  to  unburden. 

She  lounged  in  an  armchair  and  smoked  while  Sophy's 
maid  finished  brushing  her  hair.  When  the  girl  had  left 
the  room,  Olive  looked  at  her  with  affectionate  but  keen 
curiosity,  and  said  abruptly : 

"Sophy,  you  must  forgive  me,  because  I'm  so  vewij  fond 
of  you — but  .  .  .  are  you  wcally  as  happy  as  I  want  you 
to  be?" 

Sophy  returned  her  look  quietly. 

"Who  is  really  happy?"  she  said. 

"Well  .  .  .  /am  .  .  .  at  times,"  replied  Olive. 

Sophy  couldn't  help  smiling.  She  knew  that  this  "at 
times"  meant  when  Olive  was  deep  in  some  love-affair. 

"Is  this  one  of  the  times,  dear?"  she  asked  lightly,  hop 
ing  to  change  the  subject. 

Olive  nodded,  making  little  rings  of  smoke  with  the  lips 
that  were  still  so  smooth  and  fresh — though  she  had  a  big 
girl  of  sixteen. 

"It's  because  I'm  so  happy  myself  that  I  want  you  to  be 
happy,  too,  darling,"  she  murmured. 

"It  takes  such  different  things  to  make  different  people 
happy,  Olive,  dear." 

"Oh,  love  makes  evwybody  happy — while  it  lasts!" 

"Yes— while  it  lasts." 

Olive  crushed  out  her  cigarette  thoughtfully.  Then  she 
said  in  a  musing  voice : 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  377 

"Isn't  it  atwocious  of  it  not  to  last?" 

Sophy  had  to  laugh  out  for  all  her  sore  heart. 

"Very  atrocious,"  she  admitted. 

"Just  suppose  one  could  contwol  love,"  Olive  continued, 
still  in  that  musing  voice.  ' '  What  a  divine  place  the  world 
would  be!  Evwybody  would  be  happy  all  the  time,  then. 
Nobody  would  be  bored — nobody  would  divorce — nobody 
would  be  disagweeable. " 

"Nobody  would  need  a  God  or  a  philosophy,"  supple 
mented  Sophy. 

"But  as  it  is,  they  are  most  necessary,"  said  Olive  seri 
ously.  "Which  is  it  with  you,  Sophy?" 

"Both,"  replied  Sophy.     She  was  not  smiling  now. 

"With  me,"  said  Olive,  "it's  first  one  and  then  the 
other.  I  'm  afraid  I  've  a  very  fwivolous  nature,  Sophy.  I 
can't  seem  to  keep  to  one  thing,  all  the  time.  But  you, 
now  ..." 

She  gazed  again  at  Sophy  with  that  affectionate,  medi 
tative  curiosity. 

"You  seem  made  for  a  gwaiide  passion,  Sophy.  And 
yet  ..."  She  hesitated ;  then  went  on  quickly :  ' '  Now  do 
forgive  me  .  .  .  but,  somehow,  I  don't  feel  as  if  you'd 
found  it  ...  even  now." 

This  "even  now"  sent  the  blood  to  Sophy's  face.  She 
sat  very  still,  looking  at  the  monogram  on  one  of  the 
brushes  with  which  she  had  been  playing  as  Olive  talked. 

"Are  you  vexed,  darling?  You  mustn't  be  vexed.  It's 
only  because  I  'm  so  twuly  fond  of  you.  Now  Mr.  Loring  is 
awfully  nice,  and  immensely  good-looking,  and  .  .  .  and 
all  that.  But  ..."  She  hesitated  again,  then  went  on  as 
before:  "The  twuth  is,  Sophy — that  he's  much  more  the 
sort  of  man  I  might  fancy,  than  your  sort.  He's  .  .  .  he's 
.  .  .  you  see,  he  stwikes  me  as  too  fwivolous  for  you,  you 
sewious  darling!" 

Sophy  said,  in  a  flat,  tired  voice : 

"Don't  you  mean  he's  too — young  for  me,  Olive?" 

"Oh,  no!  No,  darling!  Fancy!  How  widiculous!" 
Her  tone  was  the  acme  of  sincerity.  ' '  I  never  had  such  an 
absurd  thought  for  one  moment!  I  only  meant  that  he's 
.  .  .  well  ...  a  bit  larky  for  any  one  like  you.  And  .  .  . 
and  ...  he's  so  ...  so  twemendously  Amewican  .  .  . 
and  you  aren't,  you  know  ..." 

"Yes,"  said  Sophy  wearily.     She  wished  with  all  her 


378  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

might  that  Olive  would  go  away.  She  was  very  fond  of 
her,  but  she  didn't  like  even  those  kindly  little  fingers 
fumbling  at  the  latch  of  her  heart.  She  wanted  to  be 
alone — in  the  dark. 

"Were  you  desperwately  in  love  with  him,  Sophy?" 

This  "were  you"  hurt  almost  as  much  as  the  "even 
now"  had  done.  Was  her  state  of  mind  so  apparent,  then, 
that  even  affectionate  but  flighty  Olive  had  divined  it? 

She  got  up,  and  went  round  the  room  as  though  in 
search  of  something.  As  she  moved  about,  she  said  cas 
ually  : 

"Dear  Olive,  do  you  think  I  would  have  married  again 
if  I  hadn't  been  very  much  in  love?" 

"No.  Of  course  not,"  replied  the  other  absently.  She 
had  not  at  all  said  what  she  had  come  to  say.  Suddenly 
she  too  rose,  and  went  over  to  Sophy.  She  slipped  an  arm 
about  her  shoulders. 

"Darling, "  she  said.  "You  are  so  woiv ivied  .  .  .  I  can't 
bear  it!  ...  I  know  perfectly  well  what's  wowwying  you. 
.  .  .  The  fact  is  Jack  and  I  talked  it  over  before  I  came  in 
here  just  now.  ...  I'm  going  to  be  perfectly  ficank.  .  .  . 
May  I?" 

"Yes  ...  do  ...  please,"  said  Sophy.  She  was  pale 
now.  She  had  felt  something  of  what  was  coming  as  soon 
as  Olive  mentioned  John  Arundel.  "Go  on,  Olive  .  .  . 
please  do.  I  beg  you  to, ' '  she  urged,  as  the  other  still  hesi 
tated. 

"Well,  then,  my  sweet — would  you  like  Jack  to  speak  to 
Mr.  Loring — oh,  vewy  tactfully,  of  course!  .  .  .  but  just 
make  him  understand,  you  know,  that  one  doesn't  .  .  . 
that  it  isn't  .  .  .  customawy  .  .  .  for  people  to  joke  .  .  . 
er  .  .  .  in  that  way  .  .  .  with  ...  er  ...  personages 
like  Mr.  ..." 

But  Sophy  broke  in  on  her.  She  felt  that  she  could  not 
bear  the  sound  of  the  overwhelming  name  whose  owner 
Loring  had  called  "foxy"  to  his  august  countenance. 

"Yes,  yes  .  .  .  do!"  she  said  hurriedly.  "I'll  take  it 
as  an  act  of  the  greatest  kindness  and  friendship  on  Jack 's 
part.  Tell  him  so  from  me.  You  see,  Morris  is  so  young 
and  so  ...  so  'American,'  as  you  said."  She  forced  a 
smile.  "The  bump  of  reverence  isn't  much  cultivated  in 
my  native  land,  you  know.  ..." 

"I  know,"  said  Olive  soothingly.    "But  we  wealbj  make 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  379 

allowances  for  that,  you  know.  It  isn  't  at  all  as  if  an  Eng 
lishman  had  called  that  old  gwandeur  'foxy.'  You  see, 
Amewicans  think  so  vewy  differently  from  what  we  do." 
She  was  rattling  on  in  her  affectionate  desire  to  mitigate 
Sophy's  mortification  by  showing  her  a  comprehending 
sympathy.  "Why,  I  knew  the  most  charming  young 
Amewican  girl  once  .  .  .  and  she  told  me,  as  a  gweat  joke, 
that  when  she  was  pwesented  to  the  Pwincess  Louise,  she 
said  :  '  Hello  !  '  .  .  .  Now,  you  see,  she  weally  thought  that 
was  funny  —  and  what  Amewicans  call  'smart.'  You  see, 
it's  just  the  different  point  of  view,  darling.  And  we  all 
understand  that.  I'm  sure  that  Mr.  ..." 

"Never  mind,  Olive/'  Sophy  broke  in  again.  "If  Jack 
will  make  Morris  understand  .  .  .  that  such  things  aren't 
done  ...  I'll  be  very  grateful.  More  grateful  than  I  can 


Olive  was  more  thoughtful  than  ever  as  she  returned  to 
her  own  room.  She  stood  in  a  brown  study  for  some  mo 
ments  when  she  reached  it,  then  went  and  tapped  on  the 
door  of  her  husband's  dressing-room. 

It  was  nearly  one  o'clock,  and,  attired  in  his  pyjamas, 
he  was  swinging  a  light  pair  of  Indian  clubs  before  going 
to  bed.  He  put  them  down  as  his  wife  entered  and  said  : 

'  '  How  did  it  come  off  ?  Awkward  thing  to  do  —  eh  ?  Was 
she  huffy?" 

"  'Huffy'!  ...  She  was  a  Sewaph!  ...  Oh,  Jack"— 
she  dropped  limply  upon  a  chair-arm  —  "it's  tivagic!" 

"I  felt  tragic  enough  at  luncheon,  that's  certain,"  re 
plied  he  grimly.  "But  what's  tragic  now?  ...  If  Sophy 
wasn't  offended  by  your  suggestion?  You  really  made  it, 
I  suppose?" 

"Yes.     I  did,  "  said  Olive  curtly.     "But  I'm  not  think 
ing  of  that  any  longer  —  I'm  thinking  of  Sophy.     I'd  so 
hoped  she  was  happy  this  time!  .  .  .  But  she  isn't  .  .  . 
she  isn't.  ..." 

"How  could  she  be  ...  married  to  a  young  bounder 
like  that?"  asked  Arundel. 

Olive  shook  her  head. 

"No,  Jack.  He's  not  a  bounder  .  .  .  that's  what's  so 
puzzling.  There's  something  w'ong  with  him  —  but  he's 
wealbj  not  a  bounder.  ..." 

"Well,  no  ...  perhaps  not,"  admitted  he  grudgingly. 


380  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

'But  there's  certainly  something  damned  'wrong'  with 
him." 

"Yes.  And  Sophy  knows  it  as  well  as  we  do  ...  only 
she  has  to  pwetend  not  to.  Now  isn't  that  twagic?" 

1 '  Yes.  Hard  lines  .  .  .  poor  girl !  .  .  . "  said  Arundel. 
He  had  always  been  very  fond  of  Sophy.  "First  she  gets 
a  Bedlamite  like  Chesney — then  this  .  .  .  this  lurid 
Yankee." 

Olive  began  giggling  in  spite  of  her  genuine  concern. 
"Lurid  Yankee"  seemed  to  her  so  exquisitely  fitting  an 
epithet.  But  she  stopped  as  suddenly  as  she  had  begun. 

"What  is  w'ong  with  him.  Jack?"  she  took  it  up,  deeply 
pondering  once  more.  "You're  a  man  .  .  .  you  ought  to 
be  able  to  say  at  once." 

Arundel  pondered  also. 

' '  Perhaps  it 's  a  form  of  National  swagger, ' '  he  ventured 
at  last.  "That  sort  of  way  they  have  of  implying  'I'm  as 
good  as  a  king,  and  better,  damn  your  eyes!'  It's  odd  to 
me  that  an  American  of  this  type  will  condescend  to  bend 
his  knees  in  prayer.  They'd  call  up  the  Lord  over  a  tele 
phone  wire  if  they  could." 

"Maybe  it's  the  way  they're  brought  up,  Jack." 

' '  Oh,  they  aren  't '  brought  up ' ! " 

"Well,  then  .  .  .  maybe  it's  that." 

Olive's  heart  was  sore  for  her  friend.  She  was  as  loyal 
in  her  friendships  as  she  was  fickle  in  her  loves.  She  lay 
long  awake  as  she  had  predicted,  thinking  it  all  over. 

' '  Sophy  ought  to  have  made  a  giceat  match,  with  her 
gifts  and  charm  and  beauty,"  she  reflected  sadly.  "And 
she  goes  and  mawwies  that  howidly  handsome  boy." 

Just  as  she  was  drowsing  off,  however,  a  consoling 
thought  occurred  to  her: 

"...  But  he  must  have  made  divine  love!"  she  re 
flected,  smiling.  And  this  smile  lay  prettily  on  her  lips  as 
she  slept.  To  be  "made  divine  love  to"  was,  in  Olive's 
creed,  compensation  for  most  of  the  ills  of  life. 


XXIII 

JOHN   ARUNDEL  was   quite   as  "tactful"   in   speaking  to 
Loring  as  he  had  assured  his  W'ife  that  he  would  be.     He 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  381 

merely  took  advantage  of  the  first  opening  and  said  in  a 
by-the-way-my-dear-chap  tone  that  a  certain  guest  then  at 
Everstone  was  accustomed  to  a  rather  exaggerated  homage, 
and  might,  he  feared,  take  umbrage  if  too  often  jested 
with.  He  said  that  lions,  especially  aged  lions,  were  not 
noted  for  their  sense  of  humour.  He  alluded  to  the  fact 
that  no  less  an  one  than  Huxley  had  once  ventured  to  be 
playful  in  replying  to  the  Personage  in  question,  and  had 
received  only  a  thunderous  roar  in  return.  That,  in  fact, 
the  Personage  had  never  pardoned  the  Scientist  for  ven 
turing  to  use  irony  in  this  discussion.  It  was  all  said  in 
the  most  casual  way,  and  interspersed  with  amusing  ex 
amples  of  the  Personage 's  unyielding  sense  of  his  own  not- 
to-be-trifled-with  dignity.  But  Loring  was  very  quick  at 
taking  veiled  meanings.  He  himself  had  feared  that  he 
had  gone  just  a  bit  too  far  on  that  occasion.  Now  he  was 
sure  of  it.  He  gave  no  sign,  but  a  mortified  resentment 
smouldered  in  him.  He  detested  John  Arundel.  He 
would  have  liked  to  blurt  some  rudeness  and  leave  his 
house  on  the  instant.  This  civil,  middle-aged  Englishman 
reading  him  a  lesson  on  behaviour  in  the  guise  of  anec 
dotes  that  characterised  the  peculiarities  of  the  celebrity 
whom  he,  Loring,  had  made  too  free  with,  filled  him  with 
fierce  indignation.  His  helpless  wrath  was  trebled  by  the 
fact  that  John  Arundel  was  in  the  right,  and  managing  a 
difficult  thing  with  consummate  good-breeding.  He  had 
not  been  so  angry  in  just  such  a  way  since,  when  a  boy  of 
ten,  his  youngest  uncle  had  boxed  his  ears  for  speaking 
impertinently  to  his  grandmother. 

Pride  kept  him  from  mentioning  the  matter  to  Sophy, 
however.  He  only  said  the  next  time  that  he  saw  her  alone 
that  he  "guessed  he'd  had  about  enough  of  the  Lemon- 
groves  of  England,  and  would  she  please  get  a  move  on  for 
'Home,  sweet  home.'  : 

Sophy  knew  from  this  speech  that  John  Arundel  had 
uttered  the  "word"  suggested  by  Olive.  She  also  knew, 
from  the  harsh  slang  in  which  Loring  addressed  her,  that 
he  was  deeply  incensed.  He  always  used  this  sort  of  lan 
guage  when  irritated.  But  she  gave  no  more  sign  of  her 
real  feeling  to  him  than  he  had  given  of  his  to  Arundel. 
What  was  the  use  ?  She  was  only  too  glad,  too  relieved,  to 
be  returning  to  America  at  short  notice.  England  seemed 
strange  and  distorted  to  her,  viewed  through  the  mental 


382  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

atmosphere  in  which  she  now  moved,  like  a  familiar  land 
scape  changed  by  the  alchemy  of  an  evil  dream. 

Sophy  found  a  letter  from  Mrs.  Loring  awaiting  her  in 
New  York.  The  poor  lady  was  at  Nahant  suffering  from 
an  acute  attack  of  arthritis,  with  a  trained  nurse  in  at 
tendance. 

As  always,  Loring  was  very  restless  and  ill-at-ease  in  the 
presence  of  sickness.  He  darted  gingerly  in  and  out  of  the 
sick-room  twice  a  day,  like  a  nervous  terrier  investigating 
a  thorny  hedge-row.  Mrs.  Loring  was  sweetly  grateful 
for  these  flitting  visits. 

' '  Morry  is  always  so  dear  and  unselfish  about  telling  me 
good  morning  and  good  night  when  I  am  ill!"  she  said  to 
Sophy.  "He  has  always  had  a  horror  of  illness  since  his 
earliest  childhood." 

Sophy  looked  at  her  with  wonder,  and  with  a  pitying 
regret.  She  recalled  Spencer's  chapter  on  "Egoism  versus 
Altruism."  She  thought  how  well  it  would  have  been  for 
Mrs.  Loring  and  Morris,  had  his  mother  marked,  learned, 
and  inwardly  digested  that  chapter. 

Mrs.  Loring  said  that  her  chief  regret  at  being  ill  just 
at  present,  however,  was  that  Eleanor  and  Belinda  were 
arriving  from  France  to-morrow.  "You  see,  this  was  to  be 
Belinda's  'coming-out'  season  at  Newport,  and  I'm  afraid 
Eleanor  won't  go  to  open  the  house  without  me.  She  is 
very  much  attached  to  me,"  the  poor  lady  ended,  with  re 
strained  pride.  "  I  'm  afraid  she  won 't  consent  to  leave  me 
until  I'm  well  again." 

' '  I  should  think  not ! ' '  exclaimed  Sophy  warmly.  ' '  And 
I  shan  't  leave  you,  either,  until  you  're  far  better  than  you 
are  now." 

"Thanks,  my  dear.  That  is  very,  very  sweet  of  you. 
But,"  she  added  anxiously,  "don't  let  Morry  get  an  idea 
that  I  think  I've  any  claim  on  you.  You  know  what  was 
said:  'Forsaking  father  and  mother' — I  wouldn't  have  my 
boy  think  that  I  would  take  his  wife  away  from  him,  even 
for  a  day,  for  my  selfish  pleasure." 

"Oh,  dear  Mrs.  Loring!"  cried  Sophy.  Both  affection 
and  exasperation  were  in  her  voice.  She  put  her  cheek 
down  against  the  long,  feverish  hands.  She  wanted  to 
shake  and  to  "cuddle"  the  suffering  lady  at  one  and  the 
game  time. 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  383 

"You're  a  very  sweet  woman,  my  dear,"  said  Grace 
Loring  faintly.  "I  assure  you,  I  appreciate  it  that  Morry 
has  such  a  wife  as  you.  He  was  always  so  difficult.  If 
only  Eleanor  would  be  sensible  and  take  Belinda  to  New 
port.  The  child  will  be  so  disappointed!  I  confess  this 
worries  me  very  much." 

"But,  dear  Mrs.  Loring,  why  should  you  worry?  Even 
if  Mrs.  Horton  won't  be  a  selfish  pig  and  leave  you  here  to 
suffer  all  by  yourself?  It's  so  perfectly  simple.  Belinda 
can  come  to  us." 

"Would  you?  .  .  .  Really?  .  .  ." 

Mrs.  Loring  had  ventured  to  hope  for  this  solution  once 
—but  the  fear  that  "Morry"  might  find  it  annoying  had 
made  her  repress  it.  She  now  added  quickly: 

"But  you  \vould  have  to  find  ©ut — tactfully,  my  dear — 
indirectly,  as  it  were — whether  Morry  would  object  in  any 
way. ' ' 

"Why  should  Morris  object,  if  I  don't?"  asked  Sophy,  a 
little  brusquely. 

"Ah,  my  dear  .  .  .  men  are  very  peculiar!"  sighed  Mrs. 
Loring,  in  reply  to  this  question.  This  phrase  summed  up 
her  entire  view  of  sexual  questions.  Men  were  "very  pe 
culiar.  ' '  All  her  married  life  had  been  spent  in  adapting 
herself  to  the  "peculiarities,"  first  of  her  husband,  then 
of  her  son. 

Sophy  felt  that  all  argument  would  be  quite  useless. 

"I  don't  think  Morris  will  mind  at  all,"  she  said,  in 
another  voice.  "It's  always  gay  and  pleasant  having  a 
beautiful  debutante  in  one 's  house.  It  will  make  me  really 
feel  the  'young  matron'  that  our  journals  call  me.  Have 
you  any  photos  of  Belinda  since  last  year?  She  was  very 
handsome  then.  She  must  be  still  prettier  now." 

"Eleanor  sent  me  one  taken  of  them  together,  about  two 
weeks  ago.  It's  there — in  my  writing-table.  The  left- 
hand  upper  drawer  ..." 

Sophy  found  the  photograph,  and  took  it  to  the  window. 
Mrs.  Horton  was  seated,  with  Belinda  standing  just  be 
hind  her.  The  photo  showed  how  tall  the  girl  was — as  tali 
as  herself,  Sophy  thought  she  must  be.  And  it  gave  also 
the  buoyant  pose  of  her  head,  and  fine  athletic  shoulders. 
But  no  photograph  could  even  indicate  Belinda's  extraor 
dinary  colouring  or  the  vivid  mobility  of  her  expression — • 
and  her  beauty  was  largely  a  matter  of  colouring  and  ex- 


384  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

pression.  Still,  Sophy  thought  her  very  handsome  in 
deed. 

When  she  told  Morris  that  evening  about  her  idea  of 
having  Belinda  stop  with  them  in  Newport,  he  looked 
startled  at  first,  then  glum.  The  fact  was,  the  memory  of 
that  kiss  of  two  years  ago  "upset"  him  (as  he  would  have 
expressed  it)  whenever  it  Was  recalled  to  his  mind.  He 
had  always  thought  Belinda  "a  bit  cracked."  One  never 
knew  what  she  was  going  to  say  or  do  next.  The  prospect 
of  Belinda  established  upon  his  hearthstone  did  not  at  all 
appeal  to  him. 

"Oh,  Lord!  Why  the  devil  did  my  mother  have  to 
choose  the  Newport  season  for  a  spell  of  rheumatics?"  he 
said  crossly. 

Sophy  looked  at  him  with  real  curiosity  in  her  eyes. 
Then  a  desire  which  she  had  long  felt  and  often  repressed 
got  the  better  of  her. 

"Morris,"  she  said,  "has  it  ever  occurred  to  you  that 
vou  are  very  selfish  to  your  mother?" 

"If  .  .  .  'Selfish  .  .  .to  my  mother?" 

"Yes." 

"  'Selfish'?" 

"Yes,  really." 

Loring  exhaled  a  long  breath. 

"Well,  I  like  that !"  he  remarked  at  last.  "You  do  have 
the  queerest  notions,  Goddess.  It  seems  to  me  I've  done 
nothing  for  years  but  hike  down  here  to  this  rotten  old 
place,  just  when  I  wanted  to  be  doing  something  else  .  .  . 
merely  to  please  my  mother — and  now  you  calmly  suggest 
that  I'm  selfish  to  her!" 

' '  And  how  long  do  you  stay  ? ' ' 

"Why,  you  know  as  well  as  I  do.  A  fortnight.  A  great 
deal  longer  than  I  like  staying,  I  can  assure  you!" 

"Two  weeks  out  of  every  year  ..."  said  Sophy  mus 
ingly.  "It  is  a  good  deal  of  time  to  spare  a  mother  ..." 

Her  eyes  were  dancing.  She  could  not  help  it.  He 
looked  such  a  picture  of  injured  innocence. 

Loring  was  utterly  unabashed. 

"It's  really  rather  a  shame  of  you,  Sophy,  to  say  I'm 
selfish  to  my  mother.  You'd  better  not  let  her  hear  you 
say  it — I'll  give  you  that  tip!" 

"Don't   worry.      She'll   never,   never  hear  me    say   it. 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  385 

She'd  be  just  as  astounded  and  outraged  as  you  are,  I'm 
sure — even  more  so." 

Loring  had  to  let  it  go  at  that.  He  contented  himself 
with  growling  sulkily : 

"What  all  this  has  got  to  do  with  that  little  half -tamed 
leopardess  being  quartered  on  us  at  Newport,  I'm  blessed 
if  /  can  see.  ..." 

' '  Only  that  it  would  please  your  mother  immensely  and 
take  a  great  load  off  her  mind." 

"Suppose  you  don't  like  the  girl  when  you  see  her? 
She 's  as  wild  as  a  hawk — or  was  two  years  ago. ' ' 

"A  leopardess  and  a  hawk — that  sounds  interesting.  I 
don't  mind  anything  but  bad-temper." 

"Oh,  she's  good-tempered  enough  when  she's  not  riled. 
But  a  girl  like  Belinda's  a  devilish  responsibility.  I  don't 
take  kindly  to  the  notion,  I  'm  free  to  confess. ' ' 

"Don't  you  like  her?" 

' '  Ye-es, ' '  he  admitted  grudgingly.  "  It 's  only  that  she 's 
such  a  handful." 

"Well — we  can  but  try  it,"  said  Sophy  thoughtfully. 
She  gave  him  one  of  her  warm,  friendly  smiles.  "There's 
really  nothing  else  for  us  to  do,  Morris,"  she  said.  "Mrs. 
Horton  can  always  be  sent  for  if  we  can't  manage  her. 
But  perhaps  she'll  like  me.  Perhaps  she  won't  be  wilful 
and  wrong-headed  at  all.  You  see,  eighteen  is  very  dif 
ferent  from  sixteen." 

Morris  made  a  remark  that  was  psychologically  pro- 
founder  than  he  knew. 

"The  Belinda  sort  never  get  'different';  they  only  get 
more  so  .  .  ."he  said.  "But  I  see  your  mind's  made  up. 
.  .  .  Go  ahead  ...  I  only  hope  we  shan't  both  regret 
it." 


XXIV 

BELINDA  and  her  mother  arrived  at  Nahant  late  in  the 
afternoon  of  next  day.  Sophy  had  tea  waiting  for  them. 
When  she  had  greeted  Mrs.  Ilorton,  and  that  lady  moved 
aside  to  make  way  for  her  step-daughter,  Sophy  flinched  a 
little  just  as  one  does  when  sunlight  is  flashed  suddenly  in 
one's  eyes  from  a  mirror.  There  was  really  a  glare  of 


386  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

beauty  from  Belinda.  Her  skin  and  eyes  seemed  to  give 
out  light  rather  than  to  reflect  it. 

She  was  dressed  in  silky,  red-brown  linen.  Under  the 
wide,  turnover  collar  of  her  white  blouse  was  a  loosely- 
knotted  tie  of  purple.  A  purple  toque  pressed  her  autumn- 
tinted  hair  against  her  jet-black  eyebrows.  Her  skin  was 
like  nacre,  her  lips  like  petunia  petals. 

Looking  at  her,  Sophy  felt  sure  that  if  souls  could  have 
colour,  Belinda's  soul  was  a  brilliant  purple,  like  stained 
glass — like  the  tie  that  rose  and  fell  with  her  splendid 
young  breast  as  a  moth  sways  with  a  flower. 

Belinda  gave  her  hand  to  Sophy  in  silence.  Her  eyes 
were  as  busy  with  Sophy  as  Sophy's  with  her.  Belinda 
had  peculiar  eyes.  They  could  be  as  dense  and  impene 
trable  under  her  thick,  white  lids,  as  glossy  red-brown  nuts 
shining  from  between  the  white  lining  of  their  hulls. 
Again,  they  could  throw  out  garnet  sparkles  and  become 
limpid  as  wine.  They  had  their  dense,  horse-chestnut 
gloss  as  they  regarded  Sophy. 

"What  an  extraordinary-looking  girl!"  Sophy  thought. 

Belinda  was  thinking: 

"Yes  .  .  .  she's  beautiful  .  .  .  but  I  bet  she's  an  icicle 
when  Morry's  blazing  ..." 

Why  she  thought  this,  she  could  not  have  said.  But  she 
felt  sure  of  it.  And  it  comforted  her.  She  was  so  con 
vinced  of  her  "right"  to  Morris  that  she  regarded  Sophy, 
not  exactly  as  a  wilful  thief,  but  as  a  receiver  of  stolen 
goods.  Morris  had  stolen  himself  from  her  (Belinda),  in 
a  manner  of  speaking,  and  Sophy  had  accepted  this  gift 
which  he  had  no  right  to  make.  Belinda  was  fair-minded. 
It  was  not  Sophy's  fault,  because  though  she  had  received 
stolen  goods  she  had  received  them  unwittingly.  Morris 
was  the  culprit.  Belinda  had  long  solaced  herself  with 
the  thought  of  how  delightful  would  be  the  task  of  meting 
him  his  just  punishment.  Now  she  looked  at  Sophy  and 
wondered.  She  was  wondering  how  this  strain  of  coldness 
that  she  felt  in  her  rival  affected  Morry.  And  she  clenched 
herself  against  Sophy's  beauty;  for  she  did  not  belittle  it, 
though  she  thought  it  cold.  But  she  had  no  real  fear  of  it. 
Was  she  not  eighteen  and  this  woman  thirty-two — or  nearly 
thirty-two?  Belinda  felt  youth  to  her  hand  like  a  bright 
sword.  For  two  years  she  had  been  muttering  as  she  fell 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  387 

asleep,  and  as  she  waked :  ' '  Morry  shall  divorce  her  and 
marry  me."  That  kiss  had  sealed  her  his,  and  made  him 
hers.  She  was  unusual  in  that  she  was  lawless  in  method, 
but  worked  to  law-abiding  ends. 

She  had  not  the  least  idea  of  throwing  her  cap  over  the 
windmill  for  Morry.  She  meant  to  keep  house  with  him 
in  the  windmill  and  pay  all  proper  taxes  on  the  grist  it 
ground  for  them.  It  would  be  hard  to  find  a  more  deter 
mined  character  than  Belinda.  She  had  the  sort  of  will 
that  decides  to  accomplish  an  object  without  bothering  in 
the  least  about  ways  and  means.  She  had,  as  it  were,  the 
religion  of  the  Will.  She  would  be  inspired,  she  felt  sure, 
in  just  the  right  way  at  just  the  right  moment.  She  had 
the  faith  that  not  only  counts  on  removing  mountains  into 
the  sea,  but  depends  on  the  sea's  extinguishing  them  if 
they  chance  to  be  volcanoes  and  their  peaks  left  unsub- 
merged. 

She  thought  of  her  own  passionate  love  for  Morris  as  a 
sea  into  which  many  mountains  might  be  cast  and  over 
whelmed.  There  would  come  the  destined  moment — the 
tidal  wave  would  rush  gloriously  inland.  All  would  be 
swept  clear — a  bare,  clean  space  whereon  she  would  build" 
their  palace  of  delights. 

Belinda  was  one  of  the  women-children  who  are  born 
knowing  things.  She  came  of  Lilith  rather  than  of  Eve. 
She  had  no  low  curiosities,  because  from  the  beginning  she 
seemed  to  have  been  aware  of  everything.  A  wise  Brahman 
looking  on  her  would  have  seen  the  latest  incarnation  of 
some  fearless  Courtesan,  destined  in  this  particular  exis 
tence  to  aspire  to  the  domestication  of  her  lawlessness.  For 
some  past  deed  of  mercy  on  her  part,  the  Lords  of  Karma 
had  decreed  that  in  this  life  respectability  should  be  the 
modest  guiding-star  of  her  wayward  feet.  For  though 
Belinda  would  always  be  in  spirit  her  lover's  mistress,  she 
had  no  faintest  idea  of  being  other  than  his  wife  in  the 
eyes  of  the  world. 

So  she  looked  at  Sophy,  and  wondered  how  much  she 
really  loved  Morry.  She  was  sorry  for  her,  in  a  way,  but 
this  emotion  of  indulgent  compassion  did  not  render  her 
a  whit  less  implacable. 

And  Sophy,  observing  her  closely,  tried  to  analyse  the 
strange  effect  that  the  girl  had  upon  her.  She  felt  a  pow- 


388  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

erful  force  emanating  from  the  whole  scintillant  young 
figure — yet  she  felt  as  strongly  that,  for  her  at  least,  Be 
linda  had  not  "charm." 

But  then  Belinda  did  not  have  charm  for  other  women. 
She  was  essentially,  from  her  cradle,  the  type  of  "man's 
woman"  in  one  of  its  completest  forms.  Not  the  Griselda 
type,  but  the  type  that  led  Antony  to  set  sail  after  the 
fleet  of  Egypt. 

Loring  had  been  right  when  he  called  Belinda  a  ' '  kitten 
Cleopatra." 

She  was  one  of  nature's  perfectly  a-moral  and  shameless 
triumphs — la  femme  court  isane  flung  out  as  rounded  and 
complete  as  a  golden  bubble  on  the  wind  of  destiny. 

The  three  women  sat  down  together,  and  Sophy  poured 
tea.  Loring  was  out  motoring,  but  Sophy  said  that  she 
expected  him  any  minute.  He  had  meant  to  be  back  by 
the  time  they  should  arrive. 

Belinda  was  quite  composed  at  the  idea  of  meeting  Mor 
ris  again.  She  had  schooled  herself  for  this  meeting.  An 
admirable  phlegm  was  hers,  as  she  sat  stirring  in  the  six 
lumps  of  sugar  that  she  always  put  in  her  tea  or  coffee; 
she  loved  sweets  like  a  harem  woman.  Wisdom  had  come 
to  her  with  her  eighteen  years.  She  knew  now  that  her 
"wisdom  was  to  sit  still" — that  this  is  the  highest  wisdom 
of  a  woman  in  love  with  a  man  who  is  not  in  love  with 
her.  She  was  sure  that  she  had  subtler  means  of  "touch 
ing"  Morris  than  by  any  outward  show  of  feeling.  That 
forceful  emanation  which  flowed  like  a  thrice-rarefied  scent 
from  the  girl's  personality,  and  which  even  Sophy  had 
been  aware  of,  was  like  the  infinitely  volatilised  aroma  by 
which  the  female  of  the  Emperor  Moth  calls  the  males  to 
her.  Belinda  thought  it  was  her  will.  But  it  was  the 
will  of  Nature  working  through  her. 

Mrs.  Horton  and  Sophy  talked  about  the  crossing  and 
Grace's  arthritis.  Belinda  sat  silent.  She  could  be  both 
silent  and  still  at  times  with  beautiful  completeness. 
Bobby  came  in.  Harold  Grey,  his  English  tutor,  came 
with  him.  Sophy  saw  him  blink  as  his  eyes  caught  the 
shine  of  Belinda.  "I  hope  there  won't  be  any  nonsense 
there,"  Sophy  reflected,  her  mind  already  bent  to  the 
chaperon's  habit.  She  thought  she  saw  now  why  Morris 
was  so  apprehensive  about  having  the  care  of  Belinda  dur 
ing  her  first  season.  Bobby  made  polite  bows  to  the  ladies, 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  389 

and  shook  hands  with  them.  Then  he  went  and  stood  at 
his  mother's  knee.  Harold  Grey  was  introduced  and  sub 
sided  modestly  into  the  middle  distance,  but  upon  a  chair 
from  whence  he  could  observe  Belinda's  shining  profile  in 
a  mirror. 

Bobby,  meantime,  gazed  so  earnestly  at  the  girl  that  she 
spoke  to  him  about  it.  She  did  not  care  for  children.  But 
Bobby  had  a  certain  strong  masculinity  even  at  seven  that 
caught  her  attention. 

"Well,  young  man,"  said  she.  "What's  wrong  with 
me— eh?" 

"Nothing,"  said  Bobby  succinctly. 

"Then,  why  are  you  staring  at  me  with  such  round 
eyes?" 

"  'Cause,  if  you  don't  mind,  I  like  to." 

Belinda  gave  her  lovely  grin  which  disclosed  both  rows 
of  teeth.  She  had  "grown  up  to  her  teeth,"  as  Mrs.  Hor- 
ton  put  it.  And  she  knew  how  to  smile  as  well  as  grin. 
She  had  practised  every  variety  of  smile  before  her  mir 
ror.  But  on  Bobby  she  turned  the  full  brightness  of  her 
old  hoyden  grin.  He  grinned  back,  delighted. 

"I  say,  youngster,  you're  beginning  young,  ain't  you?" 
she  asked.  ' '  Come  here  and  tell  me  why  you  '  like  it. '  : 

Bobby  went,  nothing  loath.  He  was  not  at  all  a  shy 
child,  though  he  was  very  reserved  as  a  rule. 

Sophy  could  not  have  said  why  she  was  surprised  and 
rather  disappointed  at  the  evident  fancy  which  he  had 
taken  to  Belinda  Ilorton.  She  did  not  divine  that  even 
the  seven-year-old  man  vibrated  to  the  spell  of  Belinda's 
surcharged  femininity. 

Bobby  lounged  against  the  girl 's  knee  and  stared  up  into 
her  face  out  of  sober,  dark-grey  eyes. 

"Well?"  said  Belinda,  taking  his  chin  in  her  strong 
fingers  and  shaking  it  slightly.  "Why  do  you  like  it?" 

"  'Cause  you're  beautiful,"  said  he  boldly. 

Belinda  laughed,  ran  her  hand  the  "wrong  way"  over 
his  face,  and  picking  up  a  lump  of  sugar,  pressed  it  be 
tween  his  willing  lips. 

"There!"  she  said.  "If  you  were  older,  'twould  be  a 
kiss — but  I  believe  little  boys  don't  think  kisses  as  sweet 
as  sugar." 

' '  I  think  yours  would  be, ' '  he  returned  promptly,  having 
tucked  away  the  lump  of  sugar  in  his  cheek. 


390  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

"Bobby!"  called  his  mother.    "Don't  be  forward.  ..." 

"Oh,  don't  snub  him  .  .  .  please, "  Belinda  said.  "lie's 
not  'forward' — but  he's  going  to  be  a  dreadful  flirt.  My! 
young  man,  but  you  're  going  to  lead  the  girls  a  dance  when 
you  know  how — ain't  you?" 

"I  know  how  to  dance  now,"  said  Bobby. 

"You  do,  hey?  Well,  you  shall  dance  with  me  some 
time.  Would  you  like  that?" 

"R&-therI" 

Sophy,  however,  didn't  at  all  like  this  unusual,  bold- 
eyed  Bobby  who  was  lolling  against  a  stranger's  knee  as 
though  they  had  been  intimate  for  years,  and  "giving  her 
as  good  as  she  sent."  She  cast  a  meaning  glance  at  young 
Grey,  who  had  just  finished  his  cup  of  tea.  lie  rose  obedi 
ently,  though  he  felt  the  deepest  sympathy  with  Bobby. 

"Time  for  your  boxing  lesson,  Bobby,"  he  said. 

Bobby  pressed  closer  to  Belinda.  He  looked  at  his 
mother. 

"Couldn't  I  stay  a  little  longer,  mother?"  he  pleaded. 
"  'Cause  Cousin  Belinda's  just  come?" 

Sophy  didn't  want  to  appear  a  prig.  She  glanced  again 
at  Harold  Grey. 

' '  You  must  ask  Mr.  Grey, ' '  she  said. 

"Mr.  Grey"  was  between  two  fires.  He  said  somewhat 
lamely : 

"  I  'm  sure  Miss  Horton  will  excuse  you,  Bobby.  He  has 
his  boxing  lesson  and  his  history  to  prepare  for  to-mor 
row,"  he  added,  in  explanation. 

Belinda  smiled  this  time — it  was  a  discreet  smile,  but 
disclosed  a  dimple  in  the  cheek  next  "Mr.  Grey." 

' '  Hard  lines,  Bobby ! ' '  she  murmured.  ' '  I  think  I  must 
be  nicer  than  boxing  and  history ! ' ' 

"I  should  think  so!"  he  cried  with  fervour.  "Mr.  Grey 
knows  it,  too.  ..." 

Harold  Grey  "blushed.  Belinda  laughed  delightedly. 
Sophy  rose  and  took  Bobby  by  the  hand.  She  was  laugh 
ing,  too,  but  quite  firm. 

"Come,  Bobby,"  she  said.  "You  can  see  your  Cousin 
Belinda  as  much  as  you  like  to-morrow. ' ' 

Bobby,  thus  admonished,  resisted  no  longer.  He  made 
his  most  formal  bow  to  the  company  and  marched  off  with 
his  tutor.  Belinda  rather  resented  being  thus  deprived  of 
her  vouthful  admirer. 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  391 

She  looked  smilingly  at  Sophy. 

"My!  but  you've  got  him  in  good  training,  haven't 
you?"  she  said  lazily.  "Have  you  got  Morry  trained  like 
that,  too?" 

Mrs.  Horton  made  a  nervous  movement. 

Sophy  took  it  tranquilly. 

"You  must  judge  for  yourself,"  she  replied,  also  smil 
ing.  To  herself  she  said:  "This  girl  has  a  vulgar  mind 
.  .  .  and  I'm  afraid  she's  taken  a  dislike  to  me." 

Loring  entered  a  moment  later.  He,  too,  blinked  when 
he  saw  Belinda.  It  was  not  so  much  her  beauty  that  made 
him  blink  as  her  full-fledged  "young-ladyhood."  He  had 
not  realised  that  the  tucking  up  of  her  brilliant  mane  and 
the  letting  down  of  her  skirts  would  produce  so  complete 
a  transformation. 

He  came  forward  rather  consciously,  kissed  his  aunt 
perfunctorily,  and  said: 

"Hello,  Linda!" 

"Hello,  Morry!"  she  returned,  lying  back  in  her  arm 
chair  and  looking  serenely  up  at  him.  But  into  her  lazy 
eyes  there  had  come  a  glint  of  garnet.  The  talk  was  gen 
eral  for  a  few  moments.  Then  Loring  said  that  he  wanted 
a  cup  of  tea.  He  rang,  and  Biggs  brought  fresh  tea- 
things. 

"I'll  make  it  for  you,"  said  Belinda.  She  glanced  at 
Sophy.  "If  you  don't  mind?"  she  said. 

"Of  course  not.     Thanks!"  said  Sophy. 

Belinda  busied  herself  with  the  tea  service.  She  had 
well-shaped,  very  white,  very  deft  hands.  The  White  Cat 
in  the  fairy  tale  must  have  had  hands  like  Belinda's — just 
so  velvety  and  agile. 

Morris  watched  them  curiously.  It  \vas  odd — but  Be 
linda's  hands  had  "grown  up,"  too.  He  remembered 
them  tanned  and  scratched — regular  "paws."  Now  they 
were  white-cat  paws,  soft  as  velvet  even  to  look  at. 

' '  How  funny ! "  he  said  suddenly. 

Belinda  lifted  an  eyebrow. 

"What's  'funny'?" 

"Your  sitting  there  so  demurely  making  tea  for  me." 

"Why  shouldn't  I  sit  demurely  and  make  tea  for  you?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know!  You  see  ...  I  remember  you 
chinning  up  trees  and  .  .  .  and  that  sort  of  thing." 

This  speech  rather  halted  at  'the  end. 


392  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

Belinda  thought  correctly  that  the  memory  of  that  kiss 
had  interfered  with  the  memory  of  her  tree-climbing.  Her 
spirit  purred  within  her. 

"I  daresay  I  could  'shin  up'  a  tree  quite  well  now 
adays,"  she  remarked.  "It  doesn't  at  all  prevent  one 
from  making  good  tea." 

As  she  spoke,  she  nipped  a  lump  of  sugar  in  two  be 
tween  her  strong  little  fingers,  and  dropped  one  half  into 
the  cup  she  was  preparing  for  him. 

"I  say!"  exclaimed  Morris.  "How  you  do  remember 
things!'' 

Then  he  flushed. 

"Oh,  yes.  ...  I  remember  things,"  said  Belinda  easily. 

She  poured  cream  into  the  cup  and  pushed  it  towards 
him. 

"There  ..."  she  said.  "If  you  haven't  changed  .  .  . 
entirely  .  .  .  that's  the  wa-y  you  like  it." 

Sophy  and  Mrs.  Ilorton  were  deeply  absorbed.  Sophy 
had  just  told  Belinda's  mother  about  the  plan  of  having 
Belinda  stop  with  her  at  Newport.  Mrs.  Ilorton  was  de 
lighted.  They  were  now  discussing  the  question  of  dates. 
Sophy  thought  that  perhaps  she  had  better  arrange  a 
coming-out  ball  for  Belinda  before  the  girl  appeared  in 
society.  In  that  case,  she  had  better  go  first  to  Newport, 
and  Belinda  could  join  her  in,  say,  ten  days.  Mrs.  Ilorton 
called  over  to  her  daughter,  happily  excited:  "Linda,  you 
are  certainly  the  luckiest  girl !  Just  listen  to  what  Sophy 's 
going  to  do  for  you.  ..." 

And  she  explained  with  enthusiasm. 

For  some  reason,  Belinda,  who  did  not  colour  easily, 
grew  suddenly  red.  Then  she  tossed  back  her  head  and 
looked  at  Sophy. 

"It's  aw  fully  good  of  you  ..."  she  said.  "I  think  it's 
most  awfully  kind  of  you  ..."  she  repeated.  Her  voice 
had  real  feeling  in  it,  and  yet,  queerly  enough,  Sophy 
sensed  that  this  feeling  included  resentment  also.  The 
girl  was  certainly  a  very  peculiar  character.  Was  it  that 
she  did  not  like  receiving  favours  which  she  could  not  re 
turn?  She  looked  a  haughty  creature.  Yes — doubtless 
that  was  it. 

"It  will  be  a  great  pleasure  for  me  to  have  you,"  Sophy 
said.  "I  shall  love  bringing  out  the  beauty  of  the  sea 
son." 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  393 

She  said  it  nicely  without  a  hint  of  patronage.  But  now 
this  odd  girl  grew  quite  pale. 

"Thanks!  That's  awfully  kind  of  you,"  she  murmured 
again.  What  had  turned  her  pale  was  the  thought  that 
Sophy  should  take  pleasure  in  her  own  undoing.  She  was 
quite  relentless,  but  she  had  the  sort  of  qualm  that  might 
have  stirred  a  very  young  Nemesis,  when  precipitating  the 
first  tragedy  on  her  appointed  path. 

After  this,  the  talk  again  became  general  for  a  few  mo 
ments  ;  then  Sophy  took  Mrs.  Horton  to  see  her  sister,  and 
the  others  went  to  dress  for  dinner. 


XXV 

AT  dinner-time  Loring  had  another  shock.  This  was  the 
sight  of  Belinda  in  evening  dress.  It  was  the  full  glare 
of  her  beauty  that  now  smote  him,  together  with  the  sense 
of  her  having  become  suddenly  some  one  else.  This  was 
another  person  altogether — a  new  Linda.  And  yet  Belinda 
had  sought  to  temper  the  effect  of  her  first  appearance  thus 
attired.  She  had  a  superstitious  feeling  that  her  coming- 
out  ball  at  Newport  was  to  mark  an  important  crisis  in 
her  life.  Her  gown  for  that  occasion  had  been  carefully 
selected  in  Paris  (by  her — not  by  her  mother).  That  is, 
she  had  selected  the  gown  as  the  one  in  which  she  meant  to 
burst  upon  Loring  in  the  full  splendour  of  her  new  woman 
hood.  The  ball  would  furnish  this  opportunity. 

She  was  sorry  to  have  to  lessen  that  cherished  effect, 
even  by  this  one  appearance  in  demi-toilette.  So  she  had 
chosen  the  soberest  gown  in  her  wardrobe.  It  was  of  dark 
purple  chiffon.  The  long,  mousquetaire  sleeves  veiled  her 
glinting  arms.  Her  white  breast  was  also  veiled.  But 
nothing  could  subdue  the  flame  of  her  ruddy  coronal  of 
hair.  An  oval  mole,  black  as  her  eyebrows,  lay  in  the 
hollow  of  her  white  throat — one  of  those  outrageously  per 
fect  imperfections  with  which  Nature  loves  sometimes  to 
seal  her  masterpieces.  This  mole  was  the  final  touch  on 
the  heady  lure  of  Belinda's  beauty. 

Loring 's  eyes  were  drawn  to  it  unwillingly  again  and 
again.  He  marvelled  that  he  did  not  remember  it.  He 
even  wondered  if  that  "little  devil!"  had  not  painted  it 
herself  upon  the  snow  of  her  throat. 


304  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

And  whenever  he  looked  at  the  soft,  jet-black  mole  on 
the  white  throat,  that  kiss  of  two  years  ago  flamed  in  his 
blood  as  it  had  not  flamed  at  the  time  of  its  bestowal.  But 
he  was  decent  enough  to  be  ashamed  of  this  feeling.  He 
answered  Belinda  rather  briefly  on  the  few  occasions  that 
she  spoke  to  him.  Somehow  he  did  not  trust  her.  Some 
how  (though  this  he  did  not  acknowledge  to  himself)  he 
dreaded  her.  And  he  glanced  from  her  to  Sophy — telling 
himself  how  much  more  really  beautiful  Sophy  was  in  her 
soft  grey  and  pearls  than  Belinda  in  her  pansy  purple  and 
rococo  necklace  of  amethysts  and  strass.  But  for  the  first 
time,  against  his  will,  Sophy's  beauty  struck  him  as  cold. 
And  yet  it  was  not  cold,  though,  within  it,  Sophy  herself 
felt  chill  and  numb.  She,  too,  was  obsessed  by  Belinda. 
It  was  not  so  much  the  girl's  flaring  good  looks  that  ob 
sessed  her,  but  the  thrilling,  imperial  youth  of  her.  Sophy 
felt  as  a  wilting,  cut  rose  might  feel,  looking  from  its 
crystal  vase  upon  a  vigorous  sister-blossom  still  rooted  in 
the  warm  earth.  It  was  a  wretched  sensation.  Sophy 
hated  herself  for  feeling  it,  and  yet  each  time  that  she 
glanced  at  Belinda  it  swept  over  her  afresh. 

The  dinner  was  rather  flat.  Only  Mrs.  Horton  was  in 
really  good  spirits.  She  was  quite  elated  and  happy  over 
the  idea  of  Belinda's  going  to  stop  with  Sophy  at  Newport. 
Her  "coming  out"  would  be  much  "smarter"  and  more 
brilliant  under  Sophy's  chaperonage  than  under  poor,  dear 
Grace 's. 

Belinda,  for  her  part,  was  rather  depressed  by  Sophy's 
appearance  in  the  grey  gown  that  filmed  like  smoke  about 
her  beautiful  bare  shoulders.  Belinda  had  not  taken  in 
quite  how  lovely  her  rival  was  when  she  had  first  seen  her 
that  afternoon  in  plain  white  linen.  And  just  as  her  youth 
troubled  Sophy,  so  the  mystery  of  experience  in  Sophy's 
dark-grey  eyes  troubled  Belinda.  She  had  a  moment — one 
bitter,  stinging  moment — of  feeling  not  quite  so  cock-sure 
about  the  future. 

And  Harold  Grey,  nervously  eating  far  more  than  he 
wanted  in  his  effort  not  to  look  too  often  at  Belinda,  was 
thinking  how  sure  he  was  that  his  mother  would  pronounce 
her  "not  quite  a  lady,"  and  yet  how  much  more  she  at 
tracted  him  than  any  of  the  most  genuine  "ladies"  that  he 
had  ever  seen.  "Don't  be  an  abandoned  ass,"  he  kept 
telling  himself.  "You're  an  infant's  tutor  with  a  fat 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  395 

salary  paid  you  to  keep  your  place.  Now  keep  it — con 
found  you!" 

Loring  knew  that  his  mother  had  some  old-fashioned 
prejudice  against  having  champagne  served  every  day  for 
dinner,  and  as  a  rule  he  submitted,  though  grumblingly, 
while  he  was  at  Nahant.  But  to-night  he  felt  that  he  must 
have  the  cheering  beverage  at  all  costs.  Besides,  his  mother 
was  ill  in  bed  upstairs.  Old  Biggs  looked  like  a  disap 
proving,  Methodistic  owl  when  the  order  was  given.  It 
violated  his  principles  as  Mrs.  Loring 's  butler  of  twenty 
years'  standing,  to  serve  champagne  to  a  family  party  of 
five. 

"I'm  afraid  it  will  hurt  your  mother's  feelings,  Mor 
ris,"  Sophy  ventured,  as  Biggs  left  the  room  with  a  very 
rigid  gait. 

"Pooh!  Why  need  she  know?  Such  a  silly  notion,  at 
Any  rate!  And  we  ought  to  drink  Linda's  health — after 
}*er  two  years  in  foreign  parts.  You  like  champagne,  don 't 
j-ou,  Linda?" 

"You  bet!"  said  Belinda.  She  flashed  both  rows  of 
teeth  in  pleased  anticipation. 

"Linda!"  expostulated  her  mother,  just  as  in  old  days. 
She  turned  appealingly  to  Sophy : 

"Now  I  ask  you  what  was  the  use  of  my  sending  her  to 
an  expensive  Pension  school  in  Paris  for  two  years,  if  she 
comes  back  talking  like  this?" 

"Oh,  for  God's  sake,  let  her  be  natural,  Aunt  Nelly!" 
put  in  Loring.  "If  you  only  knew  how  refreshing  it  is 
to  hear  one's  own  lingo  after  six  weeks  or  so  of  Eng 
land!" 

"Didn't  you  like  England,  Morry?"  asked  Belinda. 

Loring  grinned  in  the  direction  of  Harold  Grey. 

"Mr.  Grey's  presence  keeps  me  from  answering  with 
entire  candour,"  he  said,  a  veiled  sneer  in  his  voice.  He 
disliked  the  presence  of  Bobby's  tutor  in  his  household  ex 
tremely.  Harold  Grey  was  an  acute  young  man.  He  real 
ised  this  dislike  on  Loring 's  part,  and  returned  it  with 
vigour  but  discretion.  He  thought  Bobby's  step-father 
"just  a  bit  of  a  cad."  He  now  said  composedly: 

"Pray  don't  consider  me." 

But  Loring  replied :  ' '  Oh,  there 's  plenty  of  time  ahead  ! 
I'll  give  you  my  sentiments  in  private,  Linda." 

Belinda  glanced  from  him  to  Sophy. 


396  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

"But  you  like  it,  don't  you?"  she  asked. 

"Yes.    I  love  England,"  Sophy  answered  quietly. 

Harold  Grey  had  a  "cult"  for  his  pupil's  mother.  He 
thought  her  very  wonderful  in  every  way.  Now,  when  she 
said  in  that  deep,  sweet  voice  of  hers  that  she  "loved  Eng 
land."  he  felt  that  she  was  really  to  be  worshipped.  And 
he  wondered  for  the  many  hundredth  time,  how  she  could 
have  married  that  "gaudy  cub."  Dependence  of  position 
made  Harold  even  harder  on  his  employer  than  Lady 
"Wychcote  had  been.  But  then  he  shrewdly  guessed  that  it 
was  really  the  wife  and  not  the  husband  who  employed 
him.  lie  was  already  aware  of  the  antagonism  that  ex 
isted  between  Loring  and  Bobby.  "Breakers  ahead  there, 
I  should  say,"  he  told  himself. 

At  Sophy's  reply  to  Belinda,  Loring  cast  an  irritated 
glance  at  her  and  said  : 

"Oh,  Sophy's  an  out-and-out  Anglo-maniac — quite  rabid 
on  the  subject,  in  fact.  You  can't  take  her  opinion.  You 
wait  till  I  talk  to  you,  Linda  ! " 

Neither  the  look  nor  the  tone  escaped  Belinda.  She 
also  saw  that  Sophy  winced  from  them — that  colour  stole 
into  her  face  and  that  her  lips  tightened  a  little.  Here 
was  a  useful  sidelight.  So  Morry  was  as  hotly  American 
as  ever!  That  was  good.  Then  Sophy  must  jar  on  him  at 
times ;  for  Belinda  had  decided  that  she  was  not  very 
American,  not  even  very  Southern.  Belinda  thanked  her 
stars  that  she  herself  was  so  aggressively  a  daughter  of 
Columbia. 

"See  how  severe  Sophy  looks  at  my  daring  to  jest  on 
such  a  sacred  subject,"  Loring  continued.  "By  Gad! 
Sometimes  I  believe  she  wishes  that  we'd  remained  a  Col 
ony  of  Great  Britain!" 

("Blithering  brute!  .  .  .  Can't  you  see  she's  only  an 
noyed  because  you're  jawing  this  way  before  me?"  thought 
Harold  Grey  wrathfully.) 

But  the  truth  was,  that  Loring  had  never  forgiven  Sophy 
for  the  off-hand  lesson  read  him  by  John  Arundel.  He  half 
suspected  that  she  had  ' '  put  him  up  to  it,  by  gad  ! ' '  That 
visit  to  England  had  left  a  big  bruise  on  his  amour  propre. 
And  he  "took  it  out"  on  Sophy  now  and  then  in  some 
such  way. 

The  champagne  was  served.  Belinda's  health  was  drunk. 
She  finished  that  glass  and  began  another. 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  397 

"Be  careful,  Linda,"  cautioned  her  step-mother. 
''You're  not  used  to  wine,  you  know." 

All  Belinda's  dimples  began  to  play  like  a  throng  of 
elves. 

"Oh,  Mater!"  she  cried.  She  leaned  forward  and 
squeezed  Mrs.  Horton's  dry,  brown  hand  in  her  velvety 
white  one.  "You're  too  innocent  and  guileless  to  run 
loose  in  this  wicked  old  world  by  yourself  .  .  .  you  really 
are!" 

"\Yhat  do  you  mean  by  that  extraordinary  speech, 
Linda?" 

"Why  ...  as  if  the  girls  at  the  Pension  didn't  get 
bottles  of  fizz  smuggled  in  to  them,  any  old  time !  Why, 
whenever  we  had  a  spread  on  the  sly,  somebody's  cousin,  or 
brother,  or  mash  slipped  us  a  quart  or  so  of  cham 
pagne.  ..." 

Mrs.  Horton  looked  really  aghast.  Loring  roared.  Har 
old  Grey  couldn't  take  his  eyes  off  those  twinkling  dimples, 
but  in  his  heart  he  said:  "By  Jove!  She's  a  larky  little 
baggage ! ' ' 

Sophy  was  the  only  one  who  took  it  calmly.  She  had 
decided  all  of  a  sudden  that  there  was  a  good  deal  of 
"bluff"  about  Belinda — that  she  was  of  the  type  that  en 
joys  "shocking  people."  She  said  with  a  smile: 

"I  don't  think  you  need  look  so  horrified,  Eleanor.  I 
believe  that  Belinda  is  taking  what  she'd  call  'a  rise'  out 
of  us." 

Belinda  only  laughed,  but  she  was  vexed  that  Sophy 
should  have  seen  through  her.  She  had  not  given  her 
credit  for  such  astuteness.  The  fact  was,  that  she  had 
never  had  so  much  as  a  sip  of  champagne  while  at  Madame 
de  Bruneton's  excellent  Pension.  But  she  found  this  fam 
ily  meal  very  dull,  she  hated  seeing  Loring  in  the  bosom  of 
domesticity. 

However,  she  won  more  by  her  impish  tarradiddle  than 
she  had  looked  for.  Morris  turned  to  her  with  something 
of  the  old  devilment  in  his  eyes  and  said : 

"By  Jove,  Linda,  I  hope  it's  not  all  bluff!  I  hope  you 
arc  a  good-enough  little  sport  to  enjoy  a  glass  of  wine. 
Good  cheer  loves  company  as  well  as  Misery." 

Belinda  took  it  in  like  lightning.  Sophy  was  one  of  the 
prigs  who  do  not  care  to  drink  even  in  reason.  Poor 
Morry ! 


398  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

She  smiled  at  him,  letting  her  eyes  turn  full  on  his  for 
the  first  time. 

"Of  course  I  enjoy  it!"  she  said.  "I  love  the  funny 
little  '  razzle-dazzle '  feeling  it  gives  me !  But  the  greatest 
part  of  the  fun  is  drinking  it  with  some  one.  .  .  .  Some 
one  you  like,  of  course." 

"By  George,  you're  a  little  brick,  Linda!  Have  some 
more.  ..." 

"No,"  said  Belinda,  still  smiling,  and  putting  her  hand 
over  her  glass.  "  'Enough's'  heaps  better  than  a  feast. 
...  I  like  to  sparkle,  but  I  don't  want  to  boil  over.  ..." 

"Oh,  Belinda!    Belinda!"  said  her  step-mother. 

Sophy  came  to  the  rescue. 

"An  old  negro  said  the  best  thing  I've  ever  heard  about 
the  way  that  champagne  makes  one  feel,"  she  remarked 
lightly.  "I  gave  him  a  glass  one  Christmas  at  Sweet- 
Waters.  He  'd  never  tasted  champagne  before,  and  I  asked 
him  if  he  liked  it.  He  said:  'Laws,  Miss  Sophy — dat  I 
does !  I  feels  like  I  'se  done  hit  dee  funny-bones  all  over 
me!'  : 

While  every  one  was  laughing  at  this,  she  rose.  Harold 
Grey  excused  himself  to  "write  letters."  "Good  rid 
dance!"  Loring  muttered  to  Belinda,  as  Harold  disap 
peared  and  they  followed  Sophy  and  Mrs.  Horton  towards 
the  drawing-room. 

Loring  was  in  his  usual  after-dinner  state — not  tipsy, 
but  over-excited.  He  flashed  a  side-glance  of  appraisal. 
"You've  bloomed  into  an  out-and-out  beauty,  Linda.  But 
I  don't  suppose  you  need  me  to  tell  you  that." 

"I  think  I  rather  do,  Morry." 

"Oh,  cut  it,  Linda!  Don't  try  the  'maiden-modesty'  act 
on  me.  .  .  .  You  know  as  well  as  I  do  that  you're  a  daz- 
zler." 

They  had  lingered  by  the  front  door,  instead  of  going  on 
into  the  drawing-room.  A  full  moon  was  rising.  As  Be 
linda  stood  in  the  open  doorway,  one  side  of  her  face  and 
figure  was  silver,  and  one  golden  from  the  hall  lamps. 
She  looked  like  a  wonderful  figure  of  mingled  fires.  In 
the  strange  illumination  of  her  face,  her  eyes  burned  dark 
and  full.  She  and  Loring  leaned  against  the  opposite 
door-jambs,  gazing  at  each  other. 

' '  I  can 't  get  over  your  being  '  grown  up, '  ' '  Morris  said 
a  little  thickly,  as  she  did  not  reply  to  his  last  remark. 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  399 

"Yes  ...  I'm  'grown  up,'  "  she  said  softly.  She  kept 
looking  at  him.  Then  she  looked  at  the  sea,  then  she  looked 
back  at  him  again.  "It's  nice  .  .  .  being  a  woman,"  she 
added,  still  in  that  very  soft  voice. 

"  'Nice'?"  asked  Loring,  with  a  short  laugh.  "You  find 
it  'nice'?" 

"Very  nice,"  said  Belinda. 

She  smiled  suddenly.  Her  teeth  glistened  with  a  strange 
silvery  lustre  in  the  moonlight. 

"Why?  .  .  .  Don't  you?"  she  asked,  her  voice  slightly 
shaken  as  by  withheld  laughter.  It  was  going  to  be  easier, 
after  all,  than  she  had  thought.  She  did  not  realise  that 
Bacchus  had  as  much  to  do  with  it  as  Venus.  She  only 
knew  that  Morris  was  vibrating  to  her  nearness,  that  his 
blood  was  trembling  in  him. 

As  he  did  not  answer,  she  put  out  her  hand  and  laid  it 
lightly  on  his  breast. 

"Don't  you?"  she  said  again. 

' '  Don 't  I  what  ? "  he  asked  rather  crossly. 

That  hand  was  like  a  white  flame  to  his  drink-stirred 
blood. 

"Oh,  Morry!  .  .  .  What  a  fraud  you  are!  .  .  ." 

She  laughed  smotheredly  like  Lorelei  through  some  soft, 
warm  wave.  "What  an  awful  fraud  you  are,  Morry!  .  .  . 
You  pay  me  compliments  and  all  the  time  you're  thinking 
what  a  nuisance  it's  going  to  be,  having  me  at  Newport 
this  season ! ' ' 

Loring  looked  at  her  oddly.  Then  he  looked  down  at  the 
white  hand  which  still  lay  against  his  breast. 

"Take  your  hand  away,  Linda!"  he  said  curtly. 

She  took  it  away  and  turned  it  about  before  her  in  the 
moonlight,  gazing  at  it  consideringly. 

' '  Poor  little  old  hand  ! ' '  she  breathed  pityingly.  ' '  You  've 
offended  the  king.  ..." 

She  held  it  up  between  them,  again  laughing. 

"Must  I  cut  it  off?"  she  asked  teasingly.  "Will  you 
cut  it  off  for  me  and  'cast  it  into  the  fire'?" 

Loring  said  nothing.  He  leaned  there  looking  at  her 
darkly.  He  hated  her  and  desired  her.  It  was  the  old 
emotion,  under  whose  stress  he  had  once  kissed  her,  magni 
fied  tenfold. 

She  straightened  suddenly  and  was  close  to  him. 

"Why  are  you  so  horrid  to  me,  Morry?"  she  said,  in  a 


400  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

vehement  whisper.  "What  have  I  done  to  vex  you?  I 
think  it's  cruel  of  you  .  .  .  my  first  evening  at  home  .  .  . 
my  first  'grown-up'  evening  with  you.  ..." 

lie  saw  her  lips  trembling.  It  made  him  quite  breathless 
to  see  those  full,  rich  lips  trembling  so  near  his. 

"I  don't  mean  to  be  horrid,"  he  said  constrainedly. 

"But  you  are  .  .  .  you  are!  ..."  she  insisted.  Her 
voice  hummed  with  passion  like  a  'cello  string.  "You 
are!  ..."  she  repeated.  "What  have  I  done  that  you 
should  order  me  not  to  touch  you — as  though  my  hand  were 
poisonous  ? ' ' 

"I  .  .  .  I'm  nervous  this  evening  .  .  ."he  said  lamely. 
He  knew  that  he  should  have  turned  and  gone  forthwith 
into  the  drawing-room.  He  simply  couldn't.  The  Purple 
Emperor  aroma — the  Belinda  magic — held  him  thralled. 
Belinda  wanted  to  fall  forward  on  his  breast  and  have  her 
langh  out  in  the  dark  warmth  of  his  embrace.  But  the 
time  was  not  yet.  Some  day  they  would  laugh  together 
witli  love's  wild,  kiss-broken  laughter  over  this  comic  in 
terview.  But  not  now. 

"Are  you  sorry  you  were  so  horrid?"  she  murmured. 

"Oh.  yes  .  .  .  naturally!  ..." 

She  had  her  velvety  finger-tips  against  his  mouth  in  a 
flash. 

"Then  kiss  it  ...  beg  its  pardon!"  she  said. 

Loriug  snatched  down  her  hand  and  ground  it  between 
his. 

"Linda!  You  little  devil!  .  .  .  You  little  devil!  .  .  ." 
he  said. 

He  pushed  her  from  him,  then  swung  her  to  him  vio 
lently.  He  loosed  her  hand  and  gripped  her  hard  by  both 
shoulders.  This  grip  was  brutal  and  painful.  She  found 
it  delicious  to  be  hurt  by  him.  That  was  her  type. 

"Let  me  tell  you  ...  let  me  tell  you,"  he  gasped,  and 
this  gasping  voice  also  filled  her  with  joy,  "you'll  play 
with  fire  once  too  often,  my  dear  .  .  .  just  once  too  often. 
.  ,  .  Burns  don't  make  becoming  scars.  .  .  .  Now  leave  me 
alone!" 

He  flung  her  off  in  good  earnest  this  time,  and  strode 
away  to  the  library.  His  pulses  were  racing— his  blood 
pounding.  He  was  scared.  He  did  not  mean  to  be  false 
to  Sophy  for  a  worldful  of  Belindas.  Not  that  his  love 
for  Sophy  was  what  it  had  been.  The  old  ardour  was  clean 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  401 

gone.  He  found  her  cold.  He  felt  cold  to  her.  Yet  some 
thing  in  him  clung  blindly  to  what  had  been — to  the  re 
vealed  self  in  him  that  Sophy  had  once  called  forth. 


XXVI 

ACCORDING  to  agreement,  Belinda  arrived  in  Newport  two 
weeks  later,  the  day  before  the  ball.  When  she  came 
downstairs  next  evening,  dressed  for  the  occasion,  Sophy 
thought  that  she  had  never  seen  so  palpitantly  gorgeous  a 
creature.  It  was  not  her  gown  that  was  gorgeous,  but  the 
beauty  that  it  illumined  like  sunlight  catching  a  cloud. 
Belinda  had  told  her  step-mother  that  the  regular  dress  of 
debutantes  was  "not  her  style."  "I  should  look  perfectly 
absurd  in  white  or  blue  with  rosebuds, ' '  she  had  said,  with 
acumen.  So  she  had  selected  a  costume  of  shaded  apricot 
chiffon.  The  rich,  fruit-coloured  stuff  made  her  breast  and 
arms  look  white  as  peeled  almonds. 

An  old  necklace  of  brilliants  and  topaz  lay  like  flecks  of 
sunlight  on  her  milky  throat.  Belinda  never  wore  modern 
jewelry.  She  had  an  astonishing  gift  for  decking  her  own 
rather  extravagant  beauty  in  precisely  the  right  way.  A 
twist  of  golden  tissue  was  threaded  in  and  out  through  her 
burnished  hair,  and  held  in  place  by  a  clot  of  topazes. 
These  jewels  hid  one  ear,  and  their  brilliant  hardness  cut 
against  her  cheek.  It  is  impossible  to  describe  the  strange 
allurement  of  the  glowing,  yellow  gems,  thus  pressed 
against  the  soft  damask  of  the  young  cheek.  An  Eastern 
woman  gets  this  effect  by  wearing  heavy  bangles  that  dent 
the  flesh  of  the  upper  arm.  Sophy  could  not  explain  why 
this  cluster  of  topaz  over  Belinda's  ear  seemed  to  savour 
of  perverseness — of  an  adroit  and  cunning  perverseness. 
It  was  certainly  charming — yet  it  repelled  her.  She  re 
minded  herself  listlessly  that  Belinda's  whole  personality 
rather  repelled  her.  It  was  a  matter  of  temperamental 
aversion — for  she  felt  sure  that  she  also  repelled  Belinda. 

Perhaps  for  this  reason  they  were  particularly  civil  to 
each  other.  And  Sophy  had  certainly  been  kindness  itself 
about  this  ball  and  the  girl's  visit  to  her.  She  had  even 
chosen  her  gown  for  the  evening  with  reference  to  Be 
linda  's.  She  was  all  in  black  and  silver.  She  looked  pale 


402 

not  her  best.  Those  warm,  dusky  stains  were  too  marked 
under  her  eyes.  She  felt  at  ebb-tide.  But  Belinda  was  like 
a  great,  joyous,  sunlit,  inrushiug  wave. 

"You  are  very  beautiful  in  that  gown,  Belinda,"  Sophy 
said.  "You  look  like  sunlight." 

"And  you  look  like  moonlight — on  lilies,"  said  Belinda, 
who  could  say  very  pretty  things  when  she  chose.  Yet  as 
she  said  it  she  was  thinking  how  glad  she  was  that  she 
herself  was  red-rose  rather  than  lily !  How  typically  a 
splendid  tiger-lily  she  seemed  in  her  orange  gown,  she 
could  not  have  imagined.  The  black  mole  on  her  throat 
was  just  like  the  mark  on  a  tiger-lily  leaf. 

When  Loring  joined  them,  he  said : 

"What  the  deuce!  You  look  like  a  mandarin  orange  in 
all  that  yellow,  Linda!  ..."  But  his  eyes  said  something 
else.  Belinda  was  quite  satisfied.  When  he  added  fret 
fully:  "Why  d'you  stick  that  lump  of  jewels  over  one 
ear,  like  that?  This  isn't  Turkey  or  Hindustan  .  .  ." 
she  was  more  pleased  than  ever.  She  knew  that  the  hard 
glitter  against  her  soft  cheek  allured  him,  and  that  his 
pettishness  only  meant  that  he  didn't  wish  to  be  allured. 
But  his  reasoned  wishes  didn't  matter  in  the  least  to  her. 
It  was  the  unreasoning,  uncontrollable  wish  at  the  depths 
of  his  nature  that  she  meant  to  call  forth.  "Love"  she 
named  this  Wisk.  The  pride  of  the  eye  and  the  lust  of  life 
seemed  the  true  glories  of  being  to  Belinda.  Her  creed 
was  simple.  To  love,  to  enjoy,  to  laugh  with  all  the 
strength  of  one's  body — these  were  the  exhilarating  ends 
of  existence. 

The  ball  went  merrily.  Belinda  had  the  success  that 
might  easily  have  been  predicted.  In  contrast  with  her, 
the  other  young  girls  seemed  like  pale-hued  flowers  on 
some  tapestry  at  whose  centre  glows  a  rich  blossom  worked 
in  gold.  She  danced  and  danced  without  getting  dishev 
elled  or  red,  or  pale.  She  looked  the  embodied  Joy  of 
Living,  as  she  swayed  tirelessly,  a  faint,  secret  smile  just 
parting  her  lips,  her  head  thrown  slightly  back.  And  the 
young  men  with  whom  she  danced  seemed  also  washed  out 
and  inadequate  beside  her — very  insufficient  twigs  to  sup 
port  the  radiant,  full-blown  blossom  of  her  beauty. 

But  as  the  evening  wore  on,  though  she  still  smiled,  a 
little  flame  of  anger  and  disappointment  began  to  burn  her 
heart.  Morry  was  evidently  hard-set  against  her.  Not 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  403 

once  had  he  asked  her  to  dance.  It  was  very  shabby  of 
him.  It  was  cowardly.  She  knew  very  well  that  he  was 
afraid  of  her.  She  loved  his  fear  of  her,  but  she  hated 
this  dull,  "proper,"  tame  resistance  that  wouldn't  dare 
even  one  dance  with  her.  Then  suddenly  her  spirits  leaped. 
There  would  be  the  Cotillion.  He  would  have  to  dance 
with  her  some  time  during  the  Cotillion !  Her  opportunity 
came  with  the  "Mirror  figure."  She  sat  on  a  little  gilded 
chair  in  the  middle  of  the  ballroom,  one  gold-shot  foot 
thrust  out.  She  was  more  than  ever  like  Lorelei,  as  she  sat 
there  with  the  little  silver  mirror  in  her  hand,  coolly  touch 
ing  her  tossed  hair  into  place,  while  she  waited  for  the 
swains  to  kneel  foolishly  before  her. 

Sophy,  who  had  not  danced  this  evening,  stood  near  a 
doorway  watching  her.  To  her,  the  girl  in  her  apricot 
draperies,  looking  at  herself  in  the  silver  glass  with  such 
perfect  disinvolture,  seemed  suddenly  like  a  beautiful 
Falsehood  who  had  stolen  Truth's  mirror  and  was  trying 
to  see  what  it  revealed.  For  somehow,  as  she  had  watched 
her  during  the  evening,  the  intuitive  conviction  had  come 
to  her  that  Belinda  was  very  false.  And  yet  Belinda  was 
perfectly  true — to  herself.  What  to  Sophy  would  have 
seemed  falseness,  would  have  seemed  to  Belinda  "being 
true  to  herself."  She  really  thought  it  "being  true  to 
herself"  to  take  Morris  for  herself,  if  she  could,  by  any 
means  within  the  limits  of  conventional  propriety  and  at 
any  cost  to  any  one — but  herself  and,  within  reason,  him. 

Young  men  by  the  score  came  and  knelt  at  the  golden 
shoes  of  Belinda.  She  sent  them  all  away,  with  the  most 
charming  effrontery.  Then  Sophy  saw  Loring  approach. 
He  looked  pale  and  sulky. 

She  watched  the  two  curiously.  It  seemed  as  if  Belinda 
were  going  to  flout  Morris  also.  But  all  at  once  she 
laughed,  and  pressed  the  mirror  against  his  upturned  face. 
It  was  an  odd  gesture — almost  like  a  caress.  Sophy  thought 
that  it  displeased  her  because  of  something  in  it  that  she 
could  only  characterise  as  ' '  bad  form. ' '  The  next  moment, 
she  saw  Morris  pull  the  girl  rather  roughly  up  into  his 
arms,  and  waltz  off  with  her. 

A  woman  standing  near  by  said  spontaneously:  "What 
a  beautiful  couple  they  make!" 

Yes.  Sophy  saw  that,  too.  They  were  really  quite  won 
derful  floating  about  to  the  sensuous  rhythm  in  each  other 's 


404 

arms.  And  all  at  once  the  thought  flashed  to  her:  ''How 
well  they  suit  each  other  in  every  way ! ' '  She  stood  gazing 
after  them — singling  them  out  from  the  whirling  throng. 
And  her  thought  returned  to  her,  enlarged,  more  distinct: 
"He  ought  to  have  married  her  .  .  .  not  me."  The  more 
she  watched  them,  the  more  this  thought  possessed  her. 
Belinda  would  not  have  bored  him  with  ideals.  Belinda 
would  not  have  been  bored  herself  by  the  "social  stunt" 
as  exacted  in  New  York  and  Newport.  Belinda  would 
have  found  that  visit  to  England  ' '  bully  fun. ' '  She  would 
have  joined  with  him  in  "poking  up  the  highbrows."  Nor 
would  Belinda  have  objected  to  wine-bred  love — of  this, 
somehow,  Sophy  felt  particularly  sure.  Yes;  in  all  things 
they  would  have  been  fittingly  mated.  In  age,  in  taste,  in 
habits,  in  temperament. 

Just  here  Loriug  himself  passed  by  her  on  his  way  out 
of  the  room.  The  waltz  was  over.  lie  walked  rapidly  like 
a  man  towards  some  object.  His  face  was  white  and  set 
and  his  eyes  black.  Sophy  could  not  know  that  he  was 
drunk,  not  with  wine  but  with  Belinda.  She  slipped  out 
into  the  hall  after  him.  Only  some  servants  were  stand 
ing  about — not  near  them.  She  detained  him  an  instant, 
her  hand  on  his  arm.  "Morris — don't  be  vexed  ..."  she 
said  very  low.  ' '  But  don 't  take  any  more — just  this  even 
ing.  Your  cousin's  first  ball  ..." 

He  flung  off  her  hand.  His  face  worked.  "For  God's 
sake,  go  your  way,"  he  said,  in  a  violent  whisper,  "and 
let  me  go  mine !  I  'm  tired  of  squatting  on  the  steps  of  the 
temple.  Let  up  on  me,  for  God's  sake!  7  don't  interfere 
with  you!  .  .  ." 

He  was  gone.  And  obeying  a  very  natural  if  reprehen 
sible  impulse,  he  drank  a  glass  more  of  champagne  than 
he  had  intended  to  before  Sophy  spoke. 

She  turned  and  went  quietly  back  towards  the  ballroom. 
To-morrow  she  would  think  things  out  more  clearly.  Cer 
tainly  they  could  not  continue  as  they  were  now.  She  had 
not  meant  to  "nag."  Yet  she  had  nagged.  Sophy  had 
rare  largenesses  in  her.  She  was  neither  as  hurt  nor  as 
angered  by  Loring's  words  as  most  women  would  have 
been.  She  had  reached  that  very  chill  room  in  Love's 
House,  where  it  is  easy  to  put  one's  self  in  another's  place. 

"But  I  can't  go  on  like  this  .  .  .  not  all  my  life,"  she 
thought  wearily.  Yet  she  saw  no  way  out.  The  thought 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  405 

of  divorce  never  occurred  to  her.  She  hated  divorce  as 
she  hated  other  vulgarities.  Yet,  illogically  enough,  this 
view  of  the  matter  was  only  applied  to  her  own  case.  She 
heartily  and  thoroughly  approved  of  it  for  others.  She 
even  thought  that  marriage  should  be  a  civil  contract,  dis 
solvable  by  the  mutual  consent  of  both  parties,  or  by  the 
resolution  even  of  one. 

A  woman  of  whom  she  was  rather  fond — Helen  Van 
Eaalt — spoke  to  her  suddenly,  touching  her  shoulder  from 
behind. 

' '  Sophy,  dear,  I  'm  dreadfully  sorry  to  be  so  late !  I  had 
to  take  May  to  Fanny's  party  first,  you  know.  And  we've 
only  just  got  away.  And  I've  brought  an  old  friend  of 
yours  along  with  me — my  cousin — Marco  Amaldi.  ..." 


XXVII 

SOPHY  found  herself  with  her  hand  in  Amaldi 's.  She 
wanted  to  laugh  nervously.  She  could  think  of  nothing 
clearly  for  a  moment. 

Amaldi  noticed  how  pale  she  was.  She  did  not  seem 
less  beautiful  than  he  remembered  her,  but  his  heart 
winced,  for  he  thought  that  she  looked  ill. 

He  had  the  advantage  of  Sophy  in  this  sudden  meeting, 
because  he  had  been  prepared  for  it.  However,  "prepara 
tion"  in  such  a  case  is  something  as  if  a  man  imprisoned 
for  years  in  a  dark  dungeon  should  "prepare"  to  see  the 
sunlight.  As  much  as  he  might  school  himself,  he  would 
be  sure  to  quake  to  his  inmost  core  when  once  again  it 
flooded  him. 

Amaldi  had  tried  hard  to  forget.  If  he  had  not  forgot 
ten  he  had  at  least  succeeded  in  dulling  the  edge  of  his 
feeling  for  her.  But  it  was  by  time  and  work  that  he  had 
chiefly  commanded  his  love. 

He  flung  himself  into  all  sorts  of  agricultural  and  civic 
reforms  and  enterprises.  Political  life,  as  an  end  in  itself, 
did  not  appeal  to  him,  but  he  thought  with  Cavour  in  re 
gard  to  the  "need  which  every  worthy  man  feels  of  mak 
ing  himself  useful  to  the  society  of  which  he  is  a  part." 

Then  had  come  the  news  of  Sophy's  marriage  to  Loring. 
Amaldi  had  had  another  bitter  recrudescence  of  feeling 
over  that.  He  was  filled  with  a  contemptuous  anger 


406  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

against  himself  for  what  seemed  to  him  a  poor-spirited 
fidelity.  He  was  nothing,  had  never  been  anything  to  this 
woman  who  spread  devastation  through  his  life.  He  had 
always  despised  the  love  that  starves  on  in  faithful  sub 
mission.  He  would  on  every  occasion  have  altered  where 
he  alteration  found,  and  bent  with  the  remover  to  remove — 
only  he  discovered  that  it  was  not  in  his  power  to  do  so. 
This  emotion  which  had  seized  him  without  his  volition  or 
consent,  proved  stronger  than  his  will.  Even  though  he 
succeeded  in  curbing  it,  though  it  lay  in  chains,  as  it  were, 
in  the  profundity  of  his  being — yet  it  stirred  and  threat 
ened  at  the  idea  of  any  other  love.  It  was  like  a  jealous, 
ill-governed  prisoner  who  will  not  share  his  cell. 

This  one,  supreme  flame  had  burned  out  in  Amaldi  all 
capacity  for  loving  any  other  woman. 

As  the  years  passed,  however,  a  calmer  temper  rose  in 
him.  Reflecting  on  those  early  days  of  his  love  for  Sophy, 
he  realised  that  he  had  demanded  much  while  offering  lit 
tle — that  he  had  been  unreasonable  in  expecting  her  to 
love  him  under  the  circumstances.  Why,  indeed,  he  asked 
himself  one  day,  four  years  after  he  had  parted  from  her 
so  stormily — why  truly  should  she  have  loved  him?  His 
whole  effort  at  that  time  had  been  to  repress  himself.  He 
had  never  been  truly  himself  when  with  her,  so  much  of  his 
will  had  been  absorbed  in  trying  to  restrain  his  passion. 
He  had  been  silent,  reserved,  conventional.  Yet  he  had 
expected  her  to  return  a  feeling,  whose  depth  and  intensity 
she  could  not  possibly  have  realised.  Now  for  the  second 
time  she  was  the  wife  of  another  man.  .  .  . 

No  reasoning,  no  philosophy,  no  lapse  of  time  could  save 
Amaldi  from  crisping  in  the  furnace  of  this  thought. 

But  when,  two  years  afterwards,  his  agricultural  inter 
ests  made  a  journey  to  America  seem  necessary,  he  faced 
the  probability  of  meeting  her  again  with  tolerable  cool 
ness.  He  was  nearing  forty  and  he  considered  life  a  dis 
cipline  to  be  endured  with  hardihood.  His  character  had 
deepened  and  strengthened. 

The  Marchesa,  in  daily  contact  with  him,  found  a  dear 
companion,  though  his  habit  of  long  silences  seemed  to  in 
crease  with  growing  years.  To  his  inmost  self  she  never 
attained.  She  did  not  know  whether  any  chord  of  his 
former  passion  for  Sophy  still  vibrated.  He  never  alluded 
to  her. 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  407 

The  situation  in  regard  to  his  wife  was  just  the  same. 
When  the  Marchesa  looked  at  her  son's  fine,  sensitive  dark 
face,  grown  stronger  for  controlled  pain,  and  realised  that 
in  all  likelihood  no  compensation  would  ever  come  to  him, 
she  f«lt  that  incomparable  bitterness  with  which  we  watch 
the  suffering  of  one  for  whom  we  would  gladly  die. 

She  might  die  for  Marco  ten  times  over,  yet  he  would 
never  really  live.  "Two  women  have  seen  to  that,"  she 
told  herself  bitterly.  Yet  in  her  more  rational  moods  she 
did  not  blame  Sophy.  She  had  known  her  too  intimately 
to  blame  her.  No — that  Marco  had  loved  her  was  not 
Sophy's  fault.  There  had  been  in  his  love  for  her  that 
inevitability  which  characterises  true  passion  as  well  as 
true  poetry. 

And  Sophy,  standing  now  with  her  hand  in  Amaldi's 
after  all  these  years,  had  at  first  no  thoughts  that  could 
properly  be  called  thoughts, — the  memory  of  the  three 
windows  in  the  room  where  she  had  first  met  him — of  how 
it  had  seemed  to  mean  something,  and  yet  had  meant  noth 
ing,  like  all  else  in  her  life.  .  .  . 

Then  with  a  shock  that  "brought  her  to,"  as  it  were, 
she  recalled  how  she  and  Amaldi  had  parted  from  each 
other  six  years  ago,  and  the  colour  welled  into  her  face. 

He  knew  what  she  was  thinking  of.  He,  too,  was  think 
ing  of  it. 

Mrs.  Van  Raalt  was  chattering  again.  "Just  think 
what  an  odd  thing  Marco's  been  doing  in  America!  .  .  . 
He's  been  all  over  the  West  studying  the  system  of  agri 
culture.  Isn't  that  the  funniest  way  for  an  Italian  to 
spend  his  time  in  America?" 

"But  you've  been  in  America  before,  haven't  you?"  said 
Sophy  mechanically. 

She  was  thinking  what  an  air  of  race  Amaldi  had,  and 
how  quiet  and  strong  he  looked  standing  there  against 
the  whirling,  parti-coloured  background  of  the  ball.  Some 
how  she  did  not  remember  in  him  this  powerful  look  of 
manhood.  Then  she  realised — he  was  more  a  man.  Those 
six  intervening  years  had  given  him  this  new  look. 

"Oh,  yes,"  he  said,  answering  her  question.  "Twice. 
Once  when  I  was  a  boy — once  about  nine  years  ago.  My 
mother  gave  me  many  messages  for  you,  Signora — 'taiiti 
auguri'  ..." 


408  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

The  Italian  words  swept  Sophy  back,  and  she  paled 
again.  This  and  the  mention  of  his  mother  brought  so 
vividly  the  memory  of  Cecil's  death. 

"Please  give  her  my  love  .  .  .  when  you  write  .  .  ." 
she  said,  her  voice  a  little  shaken.  (Helen  Van  Raalt  had 
turned  away  with  some  one.)  "I  shall  never  forget  her 
kindness  to  me  .  .  ."  she  added.  As  if  she  felt  her  words 
too  formal,  she  repeated:  "I  shall  never,  never  forget  all 
her  kindness  to  me.  ..." 

"She  will  be  very  happy  to  get  such  a  message  from 
you,"  said  Amaldi.  He,  too,  felt  his  tone  to  be  formal. 
Yet  what  could  there  be  between  them  but  formalities  ?  His 
heart  shook  in  his  breast.  He  had  been  mad,  quite  mad — 
a  vain  fool,  to  risk  seeing  her  again.  He  had  even  thought 
that  to  see  her  thus,  married  for  the  second  time,  and  hap 
pily,  would  allay  the  uneasy  ache  with  which  he  always 
thought  of  her.  He  realised,  in  these  very  first  moments, 
that  it  was  the  contrary  which  had  happened.  That  half- 
numbed  ache  had  sprung  into  a  throb  of  acute  pain  at  the 
first  sight  of  her  face.  And  how  delicate  she  looked !  Then 
leaped  the  question :  Was  she  only  ill  ...  or  was  she 
unhappy  ? 

This  thought  of  her  possible  unhappiness  had  not  before 
occurred  to  Amaldi.  That  a  woman  with  such  bitter  ex 
perience  to  guide  her  should  make  a  second  mistake  in  a 
question  so  vital  as  marriage  had  not  seemed  possible.  Now 
as  he  observed  her  it  seemed  quite  possible  .  .  .  even  prob 
able.  It  took  his  breath.  He  felt  that  he  must  look  strange 
and  so  began  to  speak  casually.  After  a  few  moments 
Sophy  said:  "I  must  introduce  you  to  some  of  these 
pretty  girls.  .  .  .  They  will  be  thinking  me  very  negli 
gent." 

He  followed  her  submissively.  He  had  come  to  this 
debutante  ball  just  for  the  opportunity  of  seeing  her.  Now 
he  must  pay  the  penalty. 

Sophy  led  him  first  to  Belinda. 

"Belinda,  this  is  my  friend,  the  Marchese  Amaldi,"  she 
said.  "This  is  the  heroine  of  the  ball,  Marchese  .  .  .  Miss 
Horton,  my  ..."  she  almost  stumbled — "my  husband's 
cousin,"  it  came  out  bravely. 

Belinda  thought  that  Amaldi  looked  "a  great  swell." 
She  set  herself  at  once  to  enthrall  him.  Amaldi  lent  him 
self  idly  to  the  old,  old  gam«.  Belinda  had  at  times  the 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  409 

stupidity  of  all  cock-sureness.  She  went  to  bed  that  night 
firmly  convinced  that  Araaldi  was  her  future  slave. 

She  said  something  of  the  sort  jestingly  to  Sophy.  Sophy 
looked  at  her  gravely,  then  she  coloured  a  little  and  said : 

"I  must  tell  you  Belinda  that  the  Marchese  Amaldi  is 
married.  He  is  separated  from  his  wife — but  in  Italy  there 
is  no  divorce." 

"Pooh!"  said  Belinda  airily.  "I  don't  want  to  be  his 
marchioness.  ...  I  only  want  to  see  how  a  stately  dago 
like  that  makes  love.  ..." 

Sophy  had  not  replied.  And  Belinda,  safe  in  her  bed 
room,  taking  off  her  jewels  with  little  pussy-cat  yawns  of 
replete  pleasure,  had  thought: 

"He  must  have  been  in  love  with  her  once  .  .  .  when 
she  was  younger.  Just  common  or  garden  jealousy — her 
telling  me  that ! ' ' 

Then  she  looked  at  a  little  red  mark  on  her  white  arm, 
and  forgot  all  about  Amaldi  and  Sophy.  She  lifted  her 
arm  and  rubbed  her  cheek  softly  to  and  fro  over  the  mark. 
It  had  been  left  there  by  a  violent  kiss. 

' '  Oh,  Morry  .  .  .  Morry  ..."  she  purred,  caressing  her 
own  arm  where  he  had  caressed  it,  full  of  voluptuous 
reminiscence.  "As  if  I  care  whether  all  the  dagoes  in  the 
world  have  as  many  wives  as  Bluebeard! — My  love  .  .  . 
my  darling!" 

And  she  kissed  and  kissed  the  little  red  seal  of  love  on 
her  arm  that  was  white  like  peeled  almonds. 


XXVIII 

AMALDI  had  gone  to  that  ball  braced  for  two  ordeals — the 
meeting  with  Sophy  and  the  meeting  with  the  man  whom 
she  had  married.  He  was  introduced  to  Loring  a  few 
moments  before  he  left.  Belinda  introduced  him.  Loring 
had  come  up  as  they  sat  together  on  the  terrace.  A  light 
just  overhead  shone  directly  on  his  face. 

Amaldi  had  winced  from  the  beauty  of  that  face,  as  he 
had  winced  from  Sophy's  look  of  fragility.  He  had  not 
the  superficial  scorn  for  male  beauty  which  is  felt  by  the 
average  Anglo-Saxon.  He  did  not  fall  into  the  common 
error  of  thinking  that  women  are  indifferent  to  beauty  in 


410  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

men.  On  the  contrary,  he  knew  that  some  women  are  as 
much  affected  by  it  as  men  are  by  the  beauty  of  women. 

He  looked  at  the  perfect  Greek  type  of  Loring's  face, 
enhanced  by  the  intense  pallor  that  over-stimulation  al 
ways  lent  it,  and  he  knew  (being  a  Latin)  the  terrific  spell 
that  such  a  face  can  cast  over  the  imagination. 

At  that  moment,  so  strong  is  the  fleshly  man  in  even  the 
most  highly  evolved  being,  he  could  have  wished  that  she 
had  loved  a  monster  for  his  soul,  rather  than  this  stripling 
for  his  beauty.  The  power  of  vivid  visualisation  is  one  of 
a  Latin's  chief  tortures  when  unrequited  love  mocks  him. 
Amaldi  could  see  the  beauty  of  Sophy  and  Loring  in  each 
other's  arms  as  plainly  as  though  they  had  stood  enlaced 
before  him. 

He  had  said  good-night  rather  abruptly. 

As  he  walked  off  along  the  terrace,  Belinda  had  asked 
scampishly  of  Loring: 

"Well,  Morry,  what  d'you  think  of  my  dago  mash?" 

"I  don't  think  of  him,"  had  been  the  surly  retort. 

"Well,  I  do.  /  think  he's  a  peach.  He's  simply  stun 
ning  to  look  at  anyhow.  So  dark  and  sort  of  holding  his 
breath  at  one.  A  marquis,  too,  let  me  tell  you.  Don 't  you 
think  I'd  make  a  nice  marchioness?" 

"For  God's  sake,  don't  play  the  fool  with  me,  Linda." 

She  pouted. 

"You  won't  let  me  play  the  fool  with  you!  That's  why 
I  'm  going  to  see  if  I  can  with  rny  handsome  dago. ' ' 

Loring's  reply  to  this  had  been  to  seize  her  by  one  arm 
and  jerk  her  to  her  feet  before  him. 

"My  bracelet!  You  hurt  me  .  .  ."  she  had  murmured. 
He  released  her  arm,  and  she  stood  nursing  it  against  her 
breast,  thrusting  out  her  red  lips  over  it,  saying,  "There! 
there !"  to  it  as  if  it  had  been  a  baby. 

"I  don't  believe  I  hurt  it  an  atom.  .  .  .  Let  me  see,"  he 
had  demanded.  She  made  him  furious — furious  with  de 
sire  and  detestation.  He  loathed  her  roguery  and  wiles, 
yet  they  mastered  him  just  as  drink  did. 

"Let  me  see,"  he  said  again,  putting  out  his  hand  to 
wards  her  arm. 

She  yielded  it  to  him  with  a  languid  movement,  so  that 
it  hung  a  warm,  white  weight  in  his  grasp. 

"There  ..."  she  said,  pressing  her  forefinger  into  the 
soft  flesh. 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  411 

It  was  then  that  he  had  set  that  violent  kiss  upon  it.  His 
lips  clung,  drew  at  the  delicate,  supple  texture.  The  girl 
leaned  against  him  half  swooning  with  the  delight  of  his 
hot  lips  upon  the  coolness  of  her  bare  arm. 

She  didn't  care  in  the  least  when,  coming  to  himself 
again,  he  flung  away  her  arm  as  though  it  had  been  a  bit 
of  trash. 

"Go  to  bed,"  he  had  said  roughly  between  his  teeth. 
' '  Go  to  bed  and  say  your  prayers  .  .  .  you  need  'em.  ..." 

She  had  stood  laughing  softly,  as  he  strode  off  after 
Amaldi,  towards  the  house.  She  didn't  mind  his  rude 
nesses  because  she  knew  of  old  that  reaction  was  sure  to 
follow.  He  was  too  good-tempered  and  easy-going  in  his 
normal  state  to  keep  up  this  savage  mood  with  her.  He 
was  only  cross  like  this  when  he'd  "had  too  much."  And 
the  more  brutal  he  was  at  such  times,  the  more  apt  he  was 
to  make  up  for  it  by  being  "nice"  afterwards.  She  had 
had  some  experience  of  these  moods  in  him  even  as  a 
schoolgirl. 

In  fact,  the  next  day  Loring,  rather  ashamed  of  the  hazy 
memory  that  he  retained  of  that  scene  on  the  terrace,  was 
very  "nice"  to  her  indeed.  He  proposed  a  ride  together. 
This  was  the  beginning  of  delightful  rides  alone  with 
him. 

Sophy  had  given  up  both  riding  and  dancing  for  the 
past  two  or  three  weeks.  The  truth  was  that  she  had  not 
felt  very  well  of  late.  The  constant,  hopeless  sense  of  de 
feat,  of  a  wearing  situation  from  which  she  could  see  no 
means  of  extricating  herself,  had  begun  to  affect  her  body. 
This  sensation  of  physical  weariness  was  new  to  her.  Al 
ways,  until  now,  her  strong,  elastic  physique  had  resisted 
triumphantly.  But  nowadays  she  felt  jaded.  Everything 
seemed  an  effort.  Her  grey  eyes,  which  Amaldi  remem 
bered  so  brilliantly  eager,  had  that  subdued,  waiting  look 
which  comes  from  either  physical  or  mental  suffering  con 
stantly  endured.  Which  of  these  causes  brought  that  look 
into  her  eyes,  he  felt  that  he  must  know.  He  could  not  bear 
it  that  her  eyes  should  have  that  look  in  them.  What  was 
wrong?  Was  it  her  health  or  was  it  that  a  second  time  she 
had  made  the  mistake  most  terrible  of  all  to  a  woman  such 
as  she  was  ?  In  that  case  .  .  . 

Amaldi  faced  himself  squarely.  There  was  no  escaping 
the  truth  of  what  he  had  brought  upon  himself  by  his  own 


412  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

act.  It  had  needed  but  that  one  sight  of  her,  that  one 
touch  of  her  hand  to  rouse  in  him  the  old  love,  as  much 
stronger  for  the  lapse  of  years  as  was  his  manhood.  And 
now  .  .  .  what?  There  was  no  danger  of  his  repeating 
his  mistake  of  six  years  ago.  A  great  love  always,  sooner 
or  later,  brings  humility — the  proud  humility  expressed 
in  the  fine  old  Latin  phrase  of  the  Romish  ritual — "whom 
to  serve  is  to  be  a  King."  To  serve  her  in  her  need, 
Amaldi  felt,  would  confer  kinghood  of  spirit. 

"If  she  is  unhappy  ...  if  love  has  failed  her  this  sec 
ond  time  ...  if  she  has  no  love  left  to  give  me  .  .  .  even 
in  years  to  come  .  .  .  why,  then,  at  least  I  can  be  her 
friend  ..."  thought  Amaldi. 

He  had  reached  this  ' '  Station ' '  in  the  Via  Crucis  of  love. 
He  looked  back,  wondering,  on  the  man  he  had  been  as 
contrasted  with  the  man  he  now  was.  Had  any  one  told 
him  at  thirty  that  he  would  some  day  feel  towards  a  woman 
as  he  now  felt  towards  Sophy,  he  would  have  smiled.  Yet, 
within  a  decade  he  had  come  to  know  by  experience  that 
the  intense,  sublimated  passion  of  the  Vita  Nuova  is  no 
exaggeration. 

Those  who  maintain  that  Beatrice  was  for  Dante  merely 
a  symbol  of  Divine  and  Abstract  love,  cannot  realise  the 
miraculous  power  of  metamorphosis  inherent  in  a  supreme, 
human  love  withheld  from  its  natural  expression. 

Love  of  this  kind  is  clairvoyant  and  clairaudient. 
Though  he  could  not  yet  discern  causes  clearly,  Amaldi 
could  both  see  and  hear  the  shadowy  presences  that  fol 
lowed  Sophy  in  those  days.  The  one  stared  with  the  eyes 
of  a  virgin  at  her  broken  cestus,  the  other  plained  softly: 
"Vanity  of  vanities  ...  all  is  vanity."  Why  this  was, 
he  did  not  know,  but  that  it  was,  he  knew  certainly.  He 
set  himself  to  watch,  with  the  watchfulness  of  the  "Loyal 
serviteur." 

Within  the  next  day  or  two  he  called  about  tea-time  as 
Sophy  had  asked  him  to.  He  found  her  having  tea  on  the 
sea-lawn  with  Bobby  and  his  tutor.  Bobby  made  friends 
with  him  at  once. 

Then  shortly  Loring  and  Belinda  came  in  from  a  ride. 
It  amused  Amaldi  that  Belinda  appropriated  him  at  once. 
This  attitude  of  hers  suited  him  very  well.  He  could  see 
Sophy  often  in  this  way,  while  being  considered  "le  flirt" 
of  Miss  Horton.  He  would  also  have  opportunities  of  ob- 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  413 

serving  Loring  in  his  own  home.  This,  just  at  present,  was 
what  he  most  desired.  He  wished  to  find  out  what  sort  of 
man  was  behind  the  persona  of  that  beautiful  mask.  Now 
as  he  responded  with  discretion  to  Belinda's  rather  fa 
miliar  chaffing,  he  thought  that  Loring 's  glance  was 
slightly  hostile.  He  sat  sipping  a  cup  of  tea  in  silence, 
looking  at  them  every  now  and  then  over  its  brim. 

Belinda  thought  it  "bully  fun"  to  flirt  with  Amaldi 
"under  Morry's  very  nose."  What  a  dog  in  the  manger 
Morry  was!  He  hadn't  the  courage  to  claim  her  himself, 
yet  he  glowered  and  sulked  because  another  man  responded 
to  her  bewitchment. 

Sophy  wondered  what  impression  Amaldi  was  really 
receiving.  She  could  not  help  thinking  that  the  fencing 
between  them  was  much  as  if  Belinda  wielded  a  bludgeon 
and  Amaldi  a  rapier.  And  as  this  thought  came  to  her, 
she  winced,  remembering  that  horrible  time  when  she  had 
seen  Amaldi  himself  use  a  stick  as  a  sword. 

It  was  Loring 's  attitude  throughout  the  scene  that  chiefly 
impressed  Amaldi.  "It  is  not  possible  .  .  ."he  kept  say 
ing  to  himself.  "No  .  .  .  it's  impossible.  ..." 

But  the  more  he  noticed  those  sullen,  lowering  glances 
of  Loring  in  their  direction,  the  more  he  felt  that  what  he 
declared  "impossible"  was  a  fact. 

Was  that,  then,  the  secret  of  Sophy's  tired,  subdued 
eyes?  Did  she  still  love  that  handsome,  sulky  boy,  while 
he  turned  from  her  to  this  obvious  young  seductress? 
Amaldi  felt  hot  with  pain  and  anger  at  the  mere  surmise. 
Yet  the  situation  was  most  likely.  And  if  it  were  so,  Be 
linda  was  "playing  him  off"  to  rouse  the  other's  jealousy. 
"Little  minx!"  thought  Amaldi  in  English.  It  made  him 
furious  to  think  that  she  might  be  using  him  in  this  way 
in  the  very  presence  of  the  woman  he  adored. 

He  went  away  some  moments  later  with  a  troubled 
spirit.  What  could  friendship  avail  here?  He  had  not 
realised  that  part  of  his  high  mood  had  come  from  the 
conjecture  that  Sophy  no  longer  loved  the  man  she  had 
married.  What  had  he  or  "friendship"  to  do  in  a  galere 
already  weighted  to  the  water-line  with  love  and  jealousy  ? 
Hope  is  so  inevitably  one  with  love,  even  the  love  that  has 
decided  on  the  stony  path  of  "friendship."  He  had  hoped 
.  .  .  what  had  he  hoped  ?  Down  the  long  vista  of  years — 
what  was  it  that  he  had  glimpsed  at  the  far  end,  as  one 


414  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

glimpses  sunlight  at  the  end  of  a  long,  dark  tunnel?  He 
sat  far  into  the  night  thinking — brooding. 

But  day  brought  counsel.  lie  decided  that  he  had 
jumped  to  premature  conclusions.  He  determined  to  pur 
sue  the  course  that  he  had  at  first  planned.  At  least,  in 
this  way,  he  would  arrive  at  the  truth.  Now  he  only  fum 
bled  with  conjecture.  The  first  thing  must  be  to  win  Sophy 
to  a  feeling  of  confidence  in  their  renewed  relations. 

And  very  exquisitely,  by  fine  indirection,  he  put  her  at 
her  ease  with  him — conveyed  the  impression  that  time  had 
done  its  work-a-day  task  of  sobering  passionate  emotion 
into  tranquil  esteem. 

Life  had  dealt  rather  harshly  with  them  both.  They  had 
both  grasped  Illusion — fiower  of  Maya — and  been  stung  "by 
the  serpent  coiled  beneath.  But  a  friendship  such  as  this 
was  not  illusion.  It  wore  no  veils — its  speech  was  plain 
and  sober — it  went  clad  in  honest  homespun.  Had  not 
Amaldi  himself  once  told  her  that  he  was  not  a  sentimental 
ist  ?  This  honest,  daylight  feeling  that  had  now  sprung  up 
between  them  had  in  it  no  sentimentality.  She  did  not 
want  sentiment.  She  wanted  this  that  Amaldi  gave  her — 
mental  communion  and  stimulus,  clear  and  bracing  as  a 
day  of  her  Virginian  autumn.  It  was  so  long — so  unbe 
lievably  long — since  she  had  talked  pleasantly  with  a  man 
who  was  interested  in  the  things  that  she  found  interesting. 
And  they  would  sit  often,  over  the  tea-table  on  the  sea- 
lawn,  before  the  others  came  in  from  driving  or  riding, 
exchanging  ideas  on  philosophy  and  religion  and  poetry 
and  art.  She  asked  Amaldi  about  his  everyday  life.  He 
replied  smiling  that  he  had  become  as  ardent  an  agricul 
turist  as  Cavour  had  once  been.  Sophy  did  not  know 
about  this  phase  in  the  great  statesman's  career.  She  was 
deeply  interested.  It  came  out  that  Amaldi  had  been 
asked  to  give  some  lectures  on  the  "Risorgimento"  that 
coming  winter  at  Columbia  University.  The  idea  rather 
pleased  him,  he  said.  He  thought  of  taking  Cavour  as  his 
chief  subject. 

Sophy  kindled  at  the  idea.  It  made  her  own  problems 
and  disappointments  seem  insignificant  to  think  of  the 
gigantic  odds  with  which  that  great  being  contended  all 
his  life,  and  to  selfless  ends. 

"How  worth  while  it  all  was — his  struggle  and  his  vic 
tory!"  she  cried. 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  415 

Her  eyes  dilated — grew  brilliant  as  he  remembered  them 
in  other  days. 

"Yes,"  said  Amaldi,  "he  really  merged  his  private  self 
in  the  self  of  humanity.  Buddha  was  not  more  a  Buddhist 
in  that  respect  than  Cavour  was." 

"And  you  will  stay  here  this  winter,  and  tell  America 
something  of  him?" 

"I  think  so  ...  yes." 

It  solved  for  him  the  riddle  of  being  longer  near  her 
without  causing  comment. 

"Ah,"  said  Sophy,  "that  will  be  something  to  look  for 
ward  to." 

She  was  utterly  unaware  of  how  much  this  sentence  and 
the  tone  in  which  she  said  it  revealed  to  Amaldi. 

There  was,  then,  an  emptiness  in  her  life.  But  the  more 
that  Amaldi  realised  the  sort  of  existence  she  now  led,  the 
more  he  felt  convinced  that  even  love  could  not  have  com 
pensated  her  for  such  surroundings.  He  knew  her  latest 
book  of  poems  almost  by  heart.  Their  exaltation  of  spirit 
had  made  him  feel  when  he  read  them  that  he  had  offered 
his  hot,  human  love  to  one  of  those  women  who  are  by 
nature  Vestals. 

He,  too,  had  been  stirred  by  that  cry,  ' '  I  am  the  Wind 's, 
and  the  Wind  is  mine."  But  with  him  it  had  been  the 
cold  thrill  of  appeased  jealousy.  "No  mortal  lover"  would 
possess  what  had  been  denied  him.  There  was  a  bleak  joy 
in  this  thought.  Then  had  come  the  news  of  her  second 
marriage. 

But  in  this  marriage  he  now  felt  that  both  the  poet  and 
the  woman  suffered. 


XXIX 

AMALDI  had  not  yet  seen  Loring  unduly  affected  by  drink. 
The  latter  was  on  his  guard  just  at  that  time.  His  fear 
of  Belinda  made  him  afraid  also  of  wine.  Wine  was  the 
Delilah  that  delivered  him  bound  hand  and  foot  to  her 
Philistine  sister,  Belinda. 

Sophy  noticed  this  restraint  and  a  faint  hope  sprang  in 
her  heart.  She  felt  a  sort  of  sad,  maternal  yearning  over 
Morris — sad,  because  the  part  of  mother-wife  was  but  a 
melancholy  one  to  take,  after  having  played  Selene  to  his 


416 

Endymion.  She  would  have  got  near  him  if  she  could. 
But  he  slammed  the  door  of  his  heart  in  her  face.  What 
we  have  ceased  to  worship  we  resent,  when  it  is  still  a  part 
of  our  daily  existence. 

Loring  resented  Sophy's  " superiority "  as  much  as  he 
had  once  adored  it.  lie  blamed  it  upon  her  that  Belinda 
was  for  him  "I'echanson  de  V amour,"  the  " janua  didboli" 
of  the  ancient  church.  If  a  wife  repulsed  her  husband, 
then  she  need  not  wonder  when  he  went  elsewhere.  It  was 
plainly  her  fault.  Wives  should  be  mirrors — they  should 
reflect  moods — all  moods.  The  woman  who  locked  out  her 
lawful  husband,  for  such  a  high-flown  reason  as  that  he 
had  taken  a  "bit  too  much,"  deserved  to  have  him  blown 
away  from  her  on  the  four  winds  of  desire.  What  was 
marriage  for,  if  not  to  bind  wives  to  their  duties? 

But  while  Loring  had  grown  blase  in  his  passion  for 
Sophy,  his  vanity  in  the  "ownership"  of  her  was  still  keen. 
And  also,  in  the  depths  of  him.  he  loved  her,  though  with 
a  flat,  habituated  sort  of  affection.  All  zest  had  gone  out 
of  it.  This  was  why  her  refusals  angered  without  piquing 
him.  This  was  why  he  feared  Belinda.  His  nature  craved 
ever  new  toys,  and  Belinda  was  a  gorgeously  tempting  toy. 
Yet  he  knew  well  that  she  was  pinchbeck  compared  with 
Sophy.  He  had  no  idea  of  exchanging  the  real  thing  for 
the  imitation. 

He  did  not  mean  to  give  Sophy  any  serious  cause  for  re 
sentment.  Indeed  he  was  a  little  in  dread  of  both  women. 
He  could  not  guess  exactly  what  either  would  do  if  too 
much  exasperated.  His  feeling  for  Sophy  was  a  good  deal 
that  of  the  Collector  for  a  unique  jewel  which  he  cannot 
wear,  but  which  gives  him  a  standing  with  other  Col 
lectors.  His  feeling  for  Belinda,  that  of  an  epicure  who 
longs  for  a  dainty  that  he  knows  will  disagree  with  him. 
But  he  was  rather  fond  of  Belinda  in  spite  of  hating  her 
cordially  at  times.  He  found  her  a  congenial  pal.  He 
liked  her  dare-deviltry  when  it  was  not  directed  against 
himself.  His  will  and  Belinda's  at  this  time  represented 
the  impenetrable  wall  and  the  irresistible  ball  of  the  old 
hypothesis. 

And  now  the  little  demon  chose  to  madden  him  by  ' '  car 
rying  on"  with  that  "dago."  .  .  .  Loring  was  horribly 
jealous  of  Amaldi. 

He  and  Belinda  ware  both  very  careful  when  in  Sophy's 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  417 

presence.  Quick  as  she  usually  was  in  "feeling"  things, 
the  common  little  drama  passed  unnoticed  by  her ;  so  much 
of  it  was  played  "off  stage,"  in  the  wings.  And  her  na 
ture  was  singularly  free  from  suspicion. 

Undoubtedly  also,  the  amour  propre  natural  to  a  beauti 
ful  woman  who  has  been  much  loved,  blinded  her.  It 
simply  did  not  occur  to  her  that  Morris  could  be  in  love 
with  Belinda.  And  to  Amaldi  it  never  occurred  that 
Sophy  could  be  blind  to  what  in  his  eyes  was  so  plainly 
evident.  He  only  marvelled  at  her  self-control,  and  raged 
futilely  at  the  humiliation  to  which  she  was  subjected.  It 
cut  him  to  the  quick  that  she  should  care  for  a  cad  who 
"made  love"  in  secret  to  a  wanton  girl  under  her  very 
roof. 

Now,  however,  Mrs.  Horton  had  come  to  Newport  for  a 
few  days.  Surely  she,  as  the  girl's  mother,  would  take 
steps  in  the  matter,  which  Sophy's  pride  had  prevented 
her  from  taking. 

But  to  Amaldi 's  intense  amazement,  Belinda's  mother 
seemed  quite  unaware  of  anything  unusual.  It  was  on  the 
third  day  after  her  arrival  that  a  most  extraordinary  scene 
took  place.  The  afternoon  was  misty.  Tea  was  served 
indoors  instead  of  on  the  lawn.  As  usual  Belinda  and 
Loring  came  in  from  a  long  ride  together. 

Belinda  still  kept  up  an  intermittent  coquetry  with 
Amaldi,  though  he  did  not  meet  her  with  the  complaisance 
of  those  first  days.  Italians  particularly  object  to  being 
used  as  cat's-paws,  even  by  a  pretty  woman.  And  in  this 
instance  Amaldi 's  natural  aversion  from  serving  such  a 
purpose  was  increased  by  his  resentment  on  behalf  of 
Sophy. 

Belinda  was  very  wroth  with  Morris  this  afternoon.  He 
had  chosen  to  tell  her,  just  now,  with  the  brutality  of  self- 
defense  driven  to  its  limits,  that  Sophy's  "little  finger  was 
worth  a  shipload  of  her"  (Belinda).  She  determined  to 
punish  him.  She  dropped  into  a  low  chair  near  Amaldi, 
and  leaned  forward,  chin  in  hand,  her  lambent,  impish 
eyes  on  his. 

"Come  sta,  Amaldi?"  she  said.  "I  haven't  seen  you 
for  a  month  of  Sundays.  You're  really  much  better  look 
ing  than  I  remembered." 

"Accept  my  humble  gratitude,"  replied  Amaldi  with 
ironic  exaggeration. 


418  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

She  blinked  her  eyes  slowly,  pondering  this  remark.  She 
thought  his  dryness  the  result  of  her  neglect  of  him  for 
the  past  week.  Poor  dear!  He  was  jealous  of  Morry. 
Well,  now  Morry  should  be  jealous  of  him. 

"What's  on  that  ring?"  she  asked  suddenly.  "I  hate 
men  to  wear  rings  as  a  rule — but  that  dark  blue  is  ripping 
on  your  hand.  I  suppose  you  know  you've  got  dandy 
hands?" 

"You  overwhelm  me,"  said  Amaldi  as  before. 

"Not  much  I  don't!  I  know  your  jeering  way.  .  .  . 
But  I  think  you'd  be  rather  interesting  to  overwhelm  all 
the  same  ...  to  really  overwhelm,  I  mean." 

"But  I  assure  you  that  is  my  state  at  present." 

"Pooh!"  said  Belinda,  laughing.  She  drew  her  chair 
a  little  closer.  "Come,  you  haven't  told  me  what's  on  your 
ring." 

"My  stemma — the  coat-of-arms  of  my  family." 

He  did  not  offer  to  show  her  the  ring.  She  bent  nearer, 
gazing  at  it. 

"What's  the  motto?"  she  asked,  her  face  close  to  his 
hand. 

"  'Che  prendo — tengo,'  "  said  Amaldi. 

"And  what  does  it  mean?" 

"  'What  I  take— I  keep.'  ; 

"I  believe  you!"  she  exclaimed  boldly.  She  flashed  her 
eyes  to  his.  "You  look  as  if  you'd  know  how  to  keep  what 
you  ohose  to  take.  You've  got  such  a  very  ' Don 't-monkey- 
\vith-the-buzz-saw '  air  about  you.  It  rather  fascinates 
me.  .  .  ." 

"You  raise  me  to  vertiginous  heights,"  said  Amaldi  in 
the  same  tone. 

"Oh,  come  off !"  retorted  Belinda  with  her  joyous  grin. 

Sophy  was  talking  with  Mrs.  Horton  and  paid  no  at 
tention  to  this  murmured  dialogue,  but  Loring's  eyes  were 
fixed  angrily  upon  them,  as  he  sat  smoking  on  one  of  the 
cushioned  window-sills. 

All  at  once  Belinda  put  out  her  hand  and  touched  the 
sapphire  that  Amaldi  wore — then  held,  up  her  finger. 

"Lend  it  to  me  ..."  she  said.  "I've  fallen  in  love 
with  it." 

Amaldi  flushed.  The  ring  had  been  his  mother's. 
She  had  put  it  on  his  finger  herself  the  day  that  he  was 
twenty. 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  419 

"Well?"  laughed  Belinda.  "What  are  you  afraid  of? 
I'm  not  proposing  to  you.  ...  I  shan't  steal  it.  .  .  ." 

There  was  no  other  course  left  him.  Amaldi  drew  off  the 
ring  in  silence  and  held  it  towards  her.  He  did  not  offer 
to  put  it  on  her  finger. 

"  'Fraid-cat!"  she  mocked.  She  snatched  it  from  him 
and  slipped  it  on  herself.  The  ring  that  had  fitted  Amaldi 's 
little  finger  fitted  her  third  finger  perfectly. 

She  gazed  delighted  at  the  carved  sapphire  against  her 
white,  velvety  skin.  Then  she  jumped  up  and  danced 
away,  holding  up  her  hand  before  her,  and  chanting : 

"'What  I  take— I  keep!'  'What  I  take— I  keep!'— 
You'll  whistle  long  and  loud  before  you  get  this  beauty 
back,  Amaldi!" 

Amaldi  was  rather  pale,  but  smiling.  He  said  nothing. 
Mrs.  Ilorton  called  sharply: 

"What  on  earth  are  you  about,  Linda? — What  are  you 
making  such  a  noise  for  ? ' ' 

"Oh,  nothing  .  .  .  just  a  little  game  I've  been  playing 
with  Amaldi." 

"Well  do  be  quieter  .  .  .  you're  really  too  noisy." 

She  went  back  to  her  talk  with  Sophy.  But  though 
Sophy  listened,  her  eyes  followed  Belinda. 

Loriiig  got  down  from  his  seat  on  the  window-sill,  and 
sauntered  forward.  He  met  Belinda  in  the  middle  of  the 
room. 

' '  Go  and  give  that  ring  back, ' '  he  said  in  a  low  voice. 

"Not  much!"  laughed  Belinda. 

"Yes,  you  will." 

"You  think  so?" 

"I  know  so." 

"You'll  make  me,  I  suppose?" 

"Yes— I  will." 

"Pouf!    Just  try  it.  .  .  ." 

She  pirouetted  insolently,  and  he  caught  her  by  one  arm. 
Then  began  a  most  astonishing  scuffle.  Belinda  escaped, 
and  rushed  to  the  farthest  end  of  the  room.  Morris 
bounded  after  her — caught  her  again.  She  turned  and 
twisted  in  his  grasp.  Her  red-brown  mane  came  down ; 
she  struck  at  him,  tried  to  bite  his  hand  where  it  gripped 
her. 

Amaldi  sat  like  an  image  watching  this,  to  him,  appall 
ing  game  of  romps.  His  face  was  as  expressionless  as  a 


420 

Chinaman's.  He  thought  he  had  never  looked  on  a  cruder 
exhibition  of  sex-provocation.  He  thought  his  ears  de 
ceived  him  when  he  heard  Mrs.  Horton  exclaim: 

"Did  you  ever  see  such  a  pair  of  children!  Linda! 
Morry!  You'll  break  something.  .  .  .  Do  behave!  Can't 
you  make  Morry  behave,  Sophy?  .  .  .  Oh,  dear!  What 
do -you  mean  by  behaving  like  this,  Linda?" 

Amaldi  thought  this  question  most  unnecessary.  He 
thought  Belinda's  meaning  only  too  painfully  lucid.  He 
was  astounded  to  hear  Sophy's  sweet,  natural  laughter. 

"Morris!"  she  called.  "Belinda!  You  really  shouldn't 
romp  like  this  before  Amaldi.  He'll  think  you're  de 
mented.  ..." 

("  'Demented!'  "'  thought  Amaldi.) 

For  the  first  time  it  dawned  on  him  that  perhaps  Sophy 
did  not  take  in  the  situation  after  all.  Then  he  glanced 
at  Belinda,  panting,  flushed,  bacchante-like,  in  the  grip  of 
the  white-faced,  angry-eyed  man  who  was  trying  to  drag 
the  ring  from  her  finger.  No !  It  was  impossible.  The 
others  must  see  a  thing  so  flagrant,  so  palpable.  But  Mrs. 
Ilorton  continued  to  exclaim  helplessly  at  intervals: 

"Oh,  what  children!    What  babies!" 

While  Sophy  merely  sat  resigned,  waiting  for  the  hurri 
cane  to  subside. 

Loring  conquered,  of  course.  He  strode  up  to  Amaldi 
and  dropped  the  ring  into  his  hand,  while  Belinda  sank 
down  on  a  distant  sofa,  gasping  out: 

"You're  a  brute,  Morry!  ...  I  hate  you!" 

Loring  gave  a  short  laugh,  and  strolled  out  of  the  room. 

Amaldi  also  took  his  leave  in  a  frame  of  mind  that  may 
be  described  as  bewildered. 


XXX 

BUT  this  occasion,  which  had  led  Amaldi  to  suspect  that 
Sophy  did  not  realise  the  state  of  things  between  her  hus 
band  and  Belinda,  was  the  cause  of  her  first  awakening 
to  something  unusual  in  their  relationship.  It  was  not 
their  boisterous  romping  which  had  done  this.  Sophy  was 
too  used  to  the  fondness  of  Young  America  for  indulging  in 
this  sort  of  "high-jinks"  to  notice  particularly  the  rough- 
and-tumble  of  Belinda's  passage  with  Loring. 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  421 

She  had  been  troubled  by  the  disgust  which  she  felt 
underneath  Amaldi's  quiet  manner.  She  winced  from 
what  she  divined  to  be  his  point  of  view — the  point  of  view 
of  a  cultured  Athenian  watching  the  holiday  pranks  of 
barbarians.  This  mortified  and  disturbed  her.  But  she 
had  only  regretted  the  bad  taste  of  the  scuffle ;  it  had  not 
revealed  to  her  anything  deeper.  No — it  was  Loring's  curt 
laugh  as  he  turned  away  from  Belinda's  cry  of  "I  hate 
you!" — it  was  something  in  Belinda's  voice  and  look  as 
she  gave  this  cry  that  had  startled  Sophy.  In  the  girl's 
voice  and  look  there  had  been  such  concentrated,  vibrating 
passion;  in  Loring's  laugh  she  had  heard  an  echo  of  the 
love-laughs  of  her  own  wooing.  There  was  a  certain  note 
of  secure  mockery  in  it — a  threat  as  of  something  con 
trolled — a  suppressed  secret  triumph,  that  brought  the 
past  giddily  upon  her. 

She  had  glanced  cfuickly  from  him  to  Belinda.  The 
girl's  face  was  quivering — but  not  writh  anger.  Certainly 
not  with  anger.  For  though  she  frowned,  her  red  mouth 
tilted  upward.  Her  downcast  eyelids  fluttered  as  though 
she,  too,  were  veiling  some  suppressed,  triumphant  secret. 
There  was  more  than  her  usual  almost  insolent  cock-sure- 
ness  in  the  way  that  she  twisted  up  her  ruddy  mane  again, 
holding  the  amber  hairpins  between  her  strong,  glistening 
teeth  as  she  did  so,  and  looking  down  in  that  veiled, 
secretive  way.  It  was  the  air  of  the  diverted  pussy-cat 
who  says:  "All  right,  my  nimble  mouse — enjoy  your 
seeming  freedom.  When  I  tire  of  the  game,  I  know  how  to 
stop  your  friskings." 

Sophy  did  not  read  the  exact  meaning  of  this  air  of 
Belinda,  but  she  saw  plainly  that  it  indicated  a  certain 
secret  understanding  between  her  and  Morris. 

From  this  time  she  could  not  help  observing  Morris  and 
Belinda  "with  a  difference."  If  it  were  merely  a  flirtation 
between  them  it  was  in  execrable  taste.  She  could  not  help 
(being  human  and  having  loved  him  so  well)  resenting 
the  idea  that  he  should  flirt,  even  in  the  most  superficial 
way,  with  the  girl  that  she  herself  had  brought  into  their 
home.  But  supposing  that  it  was  more  serious — supposing 
that  this  self-willed,  violent  mad-cap  had  a  real  feeling  for 
Morris — supposing  that  in  his  present  mood  of  anger 
against  her  (Sophy)  he  were  to  revenge  himself  by  trifling 
with  Belinda? 


422  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

Sophy  could  scarcely  bring  herself  to  believe  him  cap 
able  of  this — yet  there  was  the  possibility.  Morris  could 
be  very  reckless,  especially  when  driven  by  resentment. 
It  did  not  yet  occur  to  Sophy  that  the  feeling  between  the 
two  might  be  mutual. 

Her  woman's  instinct  was  to  guard  the  girl  temporarily 
in  her  care,  from  the  freakishness  of  her  own  wayward, 
violent  nature.  She  thought  with  dismay  of  Loring's  con 
stant  drinking.  "What  might  he  not  say  and  do  under  the 
double  stress  of  wine  and  Belinda's  provocative  beauty? 

And  in  the  week  that  followed  she  saw  much  that  made 
her  uneasy,  yet  nothing  which  she  could  actually  fix  upon. 
Certainly  nothing  that  could  give  her  an  excuse  for  speak 
ing  to  Belinda.  For  she  had  decided  that  she  would  speak 
to  the  girl  if  it  became  necessary,  rather  than  to  Morris. 
She  recoiled,  in  all  her  being,  from  speaking  to  him  on 
such  a  subject.  Besides,  she  felt  that  it  would  only  enrage 
him  further.  But  Belinda  might  listen.  She  might  ap 
preciate  it,  that  Sophy  should  go  direct  to  her,  instead  of 
to  her  mother. 

And  still  nothing  had  happened  that  made  Sophy  feel 
justified  in  taking  such  a  course,  though  something  there 
undoubtedly  was — something  not  just  right,  not  just  clear 
— a  tension,  a  vibration.  It  humiliated  her  to  be  thus  on 
the  alert.  She  felt  like  a  spy.  Yet  she  felt  also  that  it  was 
clearly  her  duty  to  be  watchful  if  only  for  the  sake  of 
Belinda. 

She  knew  that  Morris  was  in  a  very  exasperated,  cruel 
mood.  lie  nursed  against  her  the  most  passionate  griev 
ance.  She  felt  that  given  the  occasion  he  might  go  to 
excessive  lengths  in  his  angry  desire  to  punish  her.  She 
knew  how  vindictive  his  present  temper  was,  because  al 
though  he  had  been  drinking  much  less  of  late,  he  had  not 
sought  a  reconciliation  with  her.  But  she  did  not  make 
any  advances  to  him.  She  had  told  him  one  night  at  Na- 
hant  that  she  would  never  again  live  with  him  as  his  wife, 
unless  he  could  show  her  beyond  doubt  that  he  loved  her 
more  than  drink.  He  had  stared  at  her,  literally  dumb 
with  fury.  Then  he  had  flung  out  of  the  room,  slamming 
the  door  behind  him.  They  had  never  spoken  on  the  sub 
ject  since. 

One  evening,  towards  the  end  of  the  week,  Sophy  stayed 
at  home  by  herself.  She  looked  forward  with  relief  to  these 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  423 

quiet  hours.  She  felt  a  craving  for  solitude  and  music — 
to  sing  out  some  of  the  pain  that  was  oppressing  her.  She 
dined  early  and  went  to  what  was  called  ' '  the  little  music- 
room."  This  room  she  had  had  done  over  for  her  especial 
use.  The  walls  were  tranquil  and  rather  bare,  of  a  soft 
cream  colour.  A  frieze  in  subdued  tones  after  a  design 
by  Leonardo  ran  about  it.  There  was  only  one  painting,  a 
lovely  Luini  angel  with  a  viol.  The  dark,  polished  floor 
reflected  jars  of  blue  Hortensias.  Two  church  candles  on 
silver  "prickets"  lighted  the  piano.  The  windows,  flush 
with  the  sea-lawn,  were  opened  wide.  Through  them  floated 
soft,  cloud-tempered  moonlight  and  the  deep  breaths  of 
the  sea. 

The  room  and  the  hour  fitted  her  mood  to  perfection. 
She  sat  down  at  the  piano  and  began  thinking  aloud,  as  it 
were,  in  what  Chesney  had  called  her  "imperial  purple 
voice." 

First  Russian  folk  music  came  to  her.  She,  too,  was 
isolated  on  the  steppe  of  her  own  nature.  The  desolate 
words  went  voluming  out  upon  the  night,  in  that  hushed, 
dusky  gold  of  the  great  contralto: 

"Lord,  hear  us!  ...  Lord  God,  hear  us! 
We  are  in  bondage: 
Like  the  Volga,  in  its  chains  of  ice, 
We  are  bound  in  the  bitter  ice  of  sorrow. 
Be  to  us  as  the  spring-tide  that  melts  the  ice, 
Arise!      Shine!      For  we  sit  in  darkness 
And  in  the  shadow  of  death. 
Lord,  hear  us!     Lord  God,  hear  us!" 

She  looked  up  as  she  ended,  to  see  Amaldi  standing  in 
one  of  the  open  windows. 

"May  I  come  in?"  he  said.  "I  shan't  be  disturbing 
you?" 

She  smiled,  holding  out  her  hand. 

"No.  Do  come  in,  Amaldi.  You're  just  the  one  person 
who  won't  disturb  me.  I'm  music-thirsty  to-night.  Now 
you  shall  play  for  me." 

"But  not  until  you've  sung  more — please,"  he  said 
quickly. 

"Very  well.  I'll  sing  to  you,  then  you'll  play  for  me. 
It  seems  strange  that  I've  never  heard  you  play.  But 
there  were  always  so  many  people  about.  I  can't  enjoy 
music — really,  in  a  crowd." 


424 

She  sang  on  for  half  an  hour,  first  more  Russian  music, 
then  old  Italian.  He  sat  where  he  could  see  her  face  but 
did  not  seem  to  look  at  her.  Glancing  at  him  now  and 
then,  she  knew  that  the  immobility  of  his  dark  profile 
meant  intense  feeling,  not  any  lack  of  it.  When  she  would 
have  stopped  at  last,  he  begged  for  one  more  song.  "Some 
thing  very  simple — that  you  especially  care  for,"  he  urged. 

She  thought  a  moment.     Then  she  said : 

"If  I  can  remember  the  music  I'll  sing  you  a  Scotch  song 
called  Ettrick.  I  loved  it  so  that  I  made  the  music  for  it 
myself.  But  it's  been  a  long,  long  time  since  I've  sung 
it.  .  .  ." 

Her  hands  wandered  among  the  keys,  gathering  a  har 
mony  here,  a  note  or  two  of  the  melody.  It  was  as  if  she 
were  gathering  flowers  of  sound  with  her  slow,  caressing 
fingers.  She  found  the  right  opening  chords  at  last,  ven 
tured  them  softly,  then  struck  full.  It  was  a  royal  burst 
of  sound — those  chords  and  her  violet  voice  together :  out 
leaped  the  glad  exultant  words : 

"When  we  first  rade  down  Ettrick, 
Our  bridles  were  ringing,  our  hearts  were  dancing, 
The  waters  were  singing,  the  sun  was  glancing. 
An'  blithely  our  voices  rang  out  thegither, 
As  we  brushed  the  dew  frae  the  blooming  heather, 
When  we  first  rade  down  Ettrick. ' ' 

She  paused,  drew  in  a  deep  breath  like  sighing.  The  next 
chords  fell  sad  and  heavy  as  earth  upon  the  dead. 

"When  we  next  rade  down  Ettrick, 
The  day  was  dying,  the  wild  birds  calling, 
The  wind  was  sighing,  the  leaves  were  falling, 
An'  silent  an'  weary,  but  closer  thegither, 
We  urged  our  steeds  thro'  the  faded  heather, 
When  we  next  rade  down  Ettrick. ' ' 

Then  came  wild  dissonance,  and  a  minor  like  the  wailing  of 
the  wind — then  once  more  the  heavy,  disconsolate  chords, 
dirge-like,  apathetic.  Her  voice  sounded  like  a  voice  waft 
ing  back  across  the  river  of  death  in  those  "last  lines  of  all 
— so  spent  and  inconsolable  it  was : 

"For  we  never  again  were  to  ride  thegither 
In  sun  or  storm  on  the  mountain  heather." 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  425 

Amaldi  sat  very  still,  but  his  heart  raced.  Wonder  filled 
him — wonder  and  exultation  and  great  pain.  She  was  so 
marvellous  to  him — her  beauty  of  flesh  and  of  spirit — now 
this  added  beauty  of  music.  And  this  soul  of  music  in  her 
was  one  with  his.  They  were  one  in  this  at  least.  He  felt 
that  if  chance  had  been  less  cruel  they  might  have  been 
one  in  all  things.  It  seemed  hateful  and  stupid,  that  the 
gross  senselessness  of  circumstance  should  have  set  them  so 
far  apart.  When  she  ceased  singing  he  sprang  to  his  feet, 
went  close  to  her. 

"You  are  wonderful  .  .  .  you  are  wonderful  .  .  ."  he 
said  shakenly.  They  were  both  rather  pale.  She  sat  look 
ing  up  at  him  in  silence.  Then  she  said  in  a  low  voice : 

"It  is  a  joy  to  sing  to  one  who  understands  as  you  do." 

He  repeated  as  if  unable  to  find  more  fitting  words : 

"You  are  a  wonderful,  wonderful  woman.  There  is  no 
one  like  you.  No  one  ...  no  one.  ..." 

"Dear  Amaldi  .  .  .  thank  you,"  she  said,  much  moved; 
and  a  little  confused  by  his  impetuousness  she  rose  from  the 
piano,  reminding  him  of  his  promise  to  play  for  her.  He 
submitted  reluctantly.  It  seemed  a  pity,  he  protested,  to 
play  after  such  singing.  And  now  he  flushed  with  the 
inner  tension  of  his  thought,  then  paled  again — for  he  was 
sure  now,  quite  sure,  that  love  had  failed  her  a  second 
time;  her  own  love  as  well  as  another's.  The  passion  in 
her  voice  had  been  the  passion  of  renunciation. 

He  began  with  an  etude  of  Bach.  It  was  the  nun  in  her 
mood  that  he  played  to. 

As  an  instrument  the  piano  resembles  a  woman  who 
speaks  many  languages  quite  well.  She  speaks  to  aliens  in 
their  different  tongues  and  people  think  "what  a  clever 
linguist!"  But  sometime  there  comes  one  who  under 
stands  her  own  native  language.  To  him  her  soul  goes 
forth ;  he  draws  from  her  true  eloquence,  the  heart 's 
warmth.  Glittering  facility  is  put  aside.  Soft,  sonorous, 
velvet-voiced  the  erstwhile  brilliant  chatterer  becomes  a 
poet  singing  forth  the  riches  of  her  secret  self. 

With  the  first  tones  drawn  by  Amaldi  from  the  familiar 
that  Sophy  thought  she  knew  so  well,  she  caught  in  a  quick 
breath  and  leaned  forward.  Was  that  the  voice  of  her  own 
excellent  Steinway,  that  deep,  liquid,  ringing  sound  that 
seemed  to  flow  from  the  white  keys  without  concussion? 
She  sat  almost  in  tears  for  the  perfect  sound,  the  infinite 


426  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

plaint  of  the  music,  as  of  a  soul  crying,  "My  God,  my 
God,  why  hast  thou  forsaken  me?"  The  change  to  in 
effable  exultation — the  triumph  of  the  great,  crystal-white 
major  chords  that  seemed  to  shout,  "Death  is  conquered!" 

"Go  on,"  she  whispered  when  he  paused.  "Go  on  ... 
play  me  something  of  your  own  this  time.  ..." 

Amaldi  glanced  at  her,  then  away  again.  A  strange  look 
had  flashed  into  his  eyes  as  they  rested  on  hers.  It  stirred 
her  oddly.  There  had  been  something  half-mystic,  half 
passionate  in  that  fleeting  look.  She  wondered  what  it 
was  he  had  thought  of  as  that  expression  quickened  his 
eyes. 

"Do  you  remember  those  lines  in  Die  Nord  See?"  he 
asked  the  next  moment. 

" Dort    am    Jiochgeirolbten    Fcnster 
Steht  cine  schone  Jcranke  Fran 
Zart  durclisichtig  und  marmorblass 
Und  sie  spielt  die  Harfe  und  singt, 
Und  der  Wind  durchwtihlt  ihre  langen  LocJcen 
TJnd  triigt  ihr  dunkles  Lied 
Ueber  das  weitc,  stiirmcnde  Mccr." 

"Yes.  They  always  cast  a  sort  of  spell  over  me.  But 
what  made  you  think  of  them  just  now,  Amaldi?" 

"Because  they  cast  a  spell  over  me,  too.  In  fact  they 
haunted  me  till  I  put  the  story  of  that  'lovely,  ill  woman' 
into  music.  I'll  play  that  for  you." 

Sophy  could  not  restrain  an  impulse  of  curiosity. 

"Tell  me  first  .  .  .  will  you — what  you  thought  her 
story  was?" 

Amaldi  kept  his  eyes  on  the  keyboard  and  spoke  rather 
low  and  rapidly. 

"I  fancied,"  he  said,  "that  love  had  made  her  a  prisoner 
in  that  castle.  Then  love  had  died.  But  love's  ghost 
haunted  the  empty  halls.  I  dreamed  that  her  sickness 
was  a  sickness  of  the  heart  and  soul  .  .  .  the  regret  for 
love  .  .  .  the  fear  of  the  ghost  of  love." 

He  began  the  opening  movement  as  he  finished  speaking, 
a  wild,  monotonous,  plangent  cadence,  like  the  rhythmic 
beat  of  surf  on  a  rocky  coast. 

There  is  in  the  life  of  every  artist,  of  every  sensitive  and 
lover,  a  supreme  inspirational  hour,  wherein  expression 
seems  simple  as  breathing,  and  inevitable  as  birth  and 
death.  Amaldi,  who  was  really  great  in  music,  played 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  427 

that  night  as  never  until  then,  as  it  was  never  given  him 
to  play  again.  Grief  and  love,  these  are  the  mighty  angels 
that  urge  genius  to  its  fullest  utterance. 

As  the  music  poured  over  Sophy  its  splendid  and  tu 
multuous  mystery,  she  felt  like  one  chained  upon  a  rock 
that  the  high  tide  overwhelms  .  .  .  drowning,  suffocating 
in  that  passionate  welter  of  sound.  The  composition  was 
in  itself  a  masterpiece,  but  her  knowledge  of  what  it  was 
intended  to  express  lent  it  a  terrible  lucidity.  That  woman 
in  her  prison-castle,  alone  with  the  ghost  of  love — was  she 
herself.  It  was  her  secret  malady — her  soul's  mortal  sick 
ness  that  he  was  revealing  in  that  daemonic  candour  of 
superb  harmony. 

She  put  up  one  hand  over  her  eyes,  as  she  sat  gathered 
in  upon  herself.  She  felt  as  if  some  barrier  were  too  com 
pletely  down  between  them,  as  if,  in  some  well-nigh  in 
sufferable  way  he  touched  the  open  wound  in  her  heart. 

"He  knows  ...  he  knows  ..."  she  kept  thinking. 
* '  He  is  telling  me  in  this  way  that  he  knows.  ..." 

And  she  could  not  be  sure  whether  she  shrank  from  his 
knowing,  or  whether  it  was  a  relief  to  her. 

There  flashed  silence.  The  exquisite,  intolerable  music 
ceased,  went  out  like  flame.  The  dead  silence  was  like  a 
darkness. 

Then  Sophy  forced  herself  to  speak. 

"You  are  very  great,  Amaldi, "  she  said  uncertainly,  her 
hand  still  over  her  eyes.  "You  .  .  .  you  should  give  all 
your  life  to  music. ' ' 

He  answered  in  a  voice  as  strange  as  his  look  had  been 
just  now: 

' '  All  my  life  is  not  mine  to  give  to  music. ' ' 

She  could  not  think  of  any  fitting  response  to  this. 
Silence  fell  again.  She  broke  it  nervously  by  asking  him 
to  play  more  for  her,  ' '  something  not  quite  so  despairing. ' ' 
She  smiled  as  she  said  this,  but  Amaldi  thought:  "She 
knows  now  that  I  know."  This  gave  him  a  feeling  of  curi 
ous  satisfaction  and  relief.  It  seemed,  somehow,  the  be 
ginning  of  something,  the  beginning  of  a  new  phase  in  their 
relations.  Hope  had  stirred  in  him.  The  future  seemed  to 
him  vague  yet  promising  like  an  uncharted  sea. 

He  played  for  her  an  hour  longer,  all  the  music  that  she 
loved  best. 

They  said  good-night  gravely,  avoiding  each  other's  eyes. 


428  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 


XXXI 

IT  was  about  this  time  that  Belinda  came  to  a  momentous 
resolution.  She  said  to  herself:  "I've  made  Morry  feel 
that  he  wants  me.  Now  I've  got  to  show  him  how  much 
he  wants  me.  I'll  just  clear  out  and  let  him  see  what  it 
feels  like  to  miss  me." 

The  process  of  "clearing  out"  was  accomplished  by  the 
acceptance  of  an  invitation  to  cruise  for  a  week  with  an 
aunt  of  May  Van  Raalt.  There  was  to  be  a  gay  party  of 
young  people  aboard.  It  was  the  most  natural  thing  in 
the  world  for  Belinda  to  wish  to  go. 

AVhen,  however,  she  told  Morris,  during  their  afternoon 
ride,  that  Sophy  had  consented  to  this  outing,  he  seemed 
to  regard  it  as  not  only  a  highly  absurd  idea  but  as  a  per 
sonal  affront.  In  fact  he  was  so  outrageously  ill-tempered 
about  it  that  Belinda  was  in  inner  ecstasies  at  the  sureness 
of  her  "inspiration."  "If  he's  like  this  before  I  even 
start,  what  will  he  be  like  by  the  time  I  come  back?"  she 
thought  gleefully. 

She  set  off  on  the  day  appointed,  in  high  spirits,  all  the 
higher  because  Morris  had  refused  to  shake  hands  at  part 
ing  and  called  her  a  "shallow  gad-about." 

But  he  was  shortly  to  rest  in  amazement  before  the  fact 
of  how  excessively  he  cared.  Everything  seemed  strangely 
flat  without  her.  He  missed  her  provocative  teasing  .  .  . 
the  singing  of  his  blood  at  her  look  and  touch.  The  con 
stant,  thrilling  struggle  with  temptation.  One  certainly 
"lived"  every  atom  of  the  time  that  one  spent  near  Linda. 
She  kept  existence  at  high-pressure.  One  could  almost  see 
the  little  "nigger  squat  on  the  safety-valve"  of  her  pleas 
ure-craft,  by  George!  But  then,  too,  she  was  such  bully 
fun  to  ride  with  and  romp  with.  Nothing  highbrow  about 
Linda.  All  the  same  he  wasn  't  going  to  let  her  make  a  fool 
of  him.  But,  by  George!  she  was  the  sort  one  missed — 
confound  her! 

The  day  after  Belinda's  departure  he  was  again  in  the 
full  swing  of  his  old  tippling  habit.  To  do  without  the 
stimulants  both  of  drink  and  Belinda  he  found  beyond 
him.  But  even  this  remedy  proved  vain.  The  flatness  left 
by  her  absence  was  not  to  be  dispelled  so  easily.  The 
thought  of  her  dogged  him  night  and  day. 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  429 

With  Sophy  his  intercourse  was  very  restricted.  On  the 
occasions  that  the  conventional  exigencies  of  their  life 
brought  them  together  he  treated  her  with  an  aloof  and 
ceremonious  politeness.  But  this  manner  was  not  now  so 
much  the  result  of  displeasure  as  of  a  growing  indifference. 

The  thought  of  Belinda  was  such  an  obsessing  flame  that 
all  other  facts  of  his  existence  had  become  like  shadows, 
Sophy  among  them.  He  craved  the  girl 's  return  so  fiercely 
that  he  had  no  coolness  of  imagination  left  with  which  to 
regard  anything  but  that  desired  and  immediate  future. 
What  was  to  be  the  result  of  their  reckless,  hot-blooded 
drawing  each  to  each  did  not  seem  to  him  to  matter  much 
just  then.  All  that  mattered  was  that  this  hateful,  gnaw 
ing  emptiness  should  be  filled.  He  was  not  used  to  that 
hungry  cramp  of  "wanting."  Even  his  want  for  Sophy 
—which  had  for  a  time  given  him  the  wholesome  discipline 
of  the  seemingly  unattainable — had  been  only  too  soon  as 
suaged.  In  some  way,  somehow  ...  he  was  lordly  in  his 
vagueness  .  .  .  this  horrid  vacuum  created  by  Belinda 
must  be  filled  by  her. 

He  rushed  into  the  day's  pleasures  like  one  hag-ridden. 
His  play  at  polo  was  maniacal  rather  than  brilliant. 

Belinda  came  back  one  afternoon  towards  twilight.  She 
was  on  tiptoe  with  delicious  anticipation  and  curiosity. 
There  was  in  her  mood,  also,  an  exasperated  craving,  for 
in  disciplining  Morris  she  had  subjected  her  own  heart  to 
the  rod. 

The  butler  said  that  "Mrs.  Loring  was  out.  but  Mr.  Lor- 
ing  had  just  come  in."  AVhere  was  Mr.  Grey?  Mr.  Grey 
was  having  tea  in  his  private  study  with  Master  Bobby. 
Belinda's  heart  sent  up  a  glad  little  tongue  of  flame.  The 
coast  was  clear,  then.  She  pulled  off  her  gloves  carelessly. 
No.  She  wouldn't  have  any  tea.  Did  Simms  know  where 
Mr.  Loring  was?  Simms  thought  that  Mr.  Loring  was  in 
the  library.  He  would  go  and  see. 

"Never  mind,'*  Belinda  said  indifferently.  "I  want  a 
book  to  take  upstairs  anyway.  Just  see  after  my  trunks, 
Simms.  They  '11  be  here  in  a  few  minutes.  ..." 

She  went  lightly  towards  the  library,  through  the  long 
drawing-room  that  opened  into  it.  Her  soft,  quick  steps 
in  her  yachting  shoes  made  no  sound.  She  stopped  mid 
way  the  long  room  and  leaned  forward  from  her  supple 
waist,  peering  between  the  folds  of  tapestry  that  veiled 


430  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

the  communicating  doorway.  Yes.  He  was  there.  The 
lights  had  not  yet  been  turned  on.  He  was  slouched  in  an 
arm-chair  smoking  moodily.  Whiskey  and  soda  stood  on  a 
tray  beside  him. 

Belinda  thought  she  knew  well  what  he  was  brooding  on 
as  he  lounged  there  in  the  deep  chair,  with  the  cigarette 
burning  out  in  his  dropped  hand.  If  she  had  really  known 
all  that  he  was  thinking,  her  triumph  would  have  been 
complete. 

She  stole  up  behind  him — leaned  over.  Close  to  his  ear, 
so  that  her  warm,  musky  breath  flowed  with  the  words,  she 
murmured:  "Have  you  missed  me?" 

Ah  ...  it  was  worth  that  week  and  many  more  away 
from  him — this  crushing  clasp  of  all  herself  against  him. 
She  had  not  known  he  was  so  beautifully  strong.  It  as 
suaged  the  fever  of  her  breast  to  be  so  bruised.  And  that 
kiss — that  endless  kiss — she  had  dreamed  of  kisses  such  as 
this  through  a  hundred  wakeful  nights.  .  .  . 

Sophy  had  returned  within  ten  minutes  of  Belinda's 
coming.  She,  too,  had  asked  Simms  where  Mr.  Loring  was, 
and  to  her  also  Simnvs  had  replied  that  Mr.  Loring  was 
in  the  library,  he  believed — that  Miss  Ilorton  had  just  ar 
rived  and  joined  him  there. 

Sophy,  too,  had  gone  down  the  long  room  towards  the 
library.  It  was  barely  dusk.  She  could  see  into  the  further 
apartment  as  plainly  as  Belinda  had  done.  What  she  saw 
was  the  girl  in  Loring 's  arms,  and  his  head  just  lifting 
from  that  prolonged  kiss.  She  stopped,  transfixed,  her 
breath  inheld. 

"You  imp  .  .  .  you  witch  ..."  Loring  was  muttering 
unsteadily. 

"But  a  'white  witch'?"  cooed  the  girl. 

Sophy  heard  him  laugh  low — that  exultant,  soft  laugh 
which  had  once  so  charmed  and  disturbed  her  in  the  days 
of  their  love.  "No,  by  God!  ...  a  red  witch  .  .  .  colour 
of  blood  .  .  .  colour  of  my  heart-  .  .  .  flame-colour  .  .  . 
little  devil's  colour.  ..." 

The  passion-broken  words  fell  about  Sophy  like  drifting 
sparks,  as  she  hurried  away  from  them  in  an  anguish  of 
panic  lest  she  should  be  glimpsed  by  one  or  the  other  of 
those  oblivious,  hot  lovers. 

When  she  reached  her  bedroom  she  was  breathless  men 
tally  and  physically.  Reality  had  fallen  upon  her  like 


431 

some  clumsy,  overtaking  Titaness.  Its  great  bulk,  heavy 
and  hot  and  panting,  weighed  her  down.  She  felt  that  she 
must  drag  herself  from  under  that  dense  weight,  or  suffo 
cate.  She  turned  the  key  in  the  lock — went  and  stood  by 
the  open  window — took  off  her  hat,  her  cloak,  her  gloves, 
mechanically,  with  quiet  deliberation.  Her  movements 
were  all  quiet  and  deliberate.  She  was  saying  to  herself, 
''Let  me  think.  .  .  .  Let  me  think  .  .  .'"  as  though  sorn,e 
one  were  keeping  back  thought  from  her. 

It  is  one  thing  to  suspect — to  surmise.  It  is  quite  another 
to  see  with  bodily  vision.  Seeing  is  believing,  they  say, 
yet  Sophy  felt  herself,  her  inmost  self,  refusing  to  believe 
what  she  had  seen — and  heard.  This  was  just  at  first, 
before  she  succeeded  in  freeing  herself  from  that  leaden 
smothering  sense  of  stupefaction. 

Within  ten.  minutes  her  mind  was  working  with  lightning 
speed  and  clarity.  Now  in  contrast  to  her  former  state, 
she  had  a  sense  of  being  giddily  light  and  uplifted  above 
the  situation.  It  was  as  if  her  part  in  it  did  not  count  at 
all,  as  if  she  were  nowhere.  Or  as  if  being  somewhere, 
she  was  conscious  on  another  plane.  She  had  the  mental 
poise  of  a  Sylphide,  surveying  from  the  cool  balcony  of  a 
cloud  the  doings  of  two  Salamanders  in  their  grotto  of 
flames.  This  feeling  also  passed  quickly.  She  found  her 
self  realising  that  she  was  Sophy  Loring — just  simply  and 
painfully  a  woman  who  had  seen  her  husband  holding  an 
other  woman  in  his  arms. 

As  she  faced  this  realisation,  all  of  pride  in  her  rose  to 
announce,  "I  do  not  care."  But  no  sooner  had  one  part 
of  her  said  this,  than  another  part  cried  out  that  she  did 
care — intensely,  vehemently.  She  struggled  to  clear  her 
mood.  She  asked  herself  harshly  whether  she  had  any  love 
left  for  Morris.  The  reply  came  with  mortifying  prompt 
ness.  Whether  she  loved  him  or  not,  she  passionately  re 
sented  another  woman's  loving  him  and  being  loved  by  him. 
She  felt  humiliated,  by  the  crass,  primitive  fibres  that  this 
wound  had  exposed  in  the  substance  of  her  nature.  Was 
she  then  capable  of  a  blind,  instinctive,  mean  jealousy, 
when  there  was  no  real,  love  left  to  excuse  it  ?  She  did  not 
know  that  the  jealousy  for  what  has  been  is  sometimes  even 
more  bitter  if  less  keen  than  that  for  what  actually  exists. 
She  was  jealous  for  all  the  beautiful,  unsullied  past  that 
this  present  act  of  his  defaced  beyond  retrieval.  But  then 


432  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

there  was  also  the  angry  fire  of  wounded  pride — of  hurt 
womanly  vanity  in  her  flame  of  resentment  against  Be 
linda.  She  knew  this.  It  humiliated  her  to  the  core. 
Then  her  feeling  veered  again.  She  experienced  a  throe  of 
such  scorn  for  Loring  as  sickened  her.  This  in  turn  re 
acted  into  a  sort  of  wild,  impersonal  regret  for  the  whole 
thing — for  all  concerned  in  it — Morris,  the  girl,  herself. 
It  was  Othello 's  cry  of  unspeakable,  confused  anguish  that 
echoed  in  her  heart:  "But  yet  the  pity  of  it,  lago!  O 
lago — the  pity  of  it,  lago!"  .  .  . 

She  rose  suddenly  with  a  quick,  determined  movement 
and  looked  at  her  watch.  Seven  o'clock.  She  and  Loring 
were  dining  out  at  half-past  eight.  She  must  have  time 
to  think,  to  reflect.  There  must  not  be  a  sign  of  what  she 
know  in  face  or  voice  or  manner,  until  she  had  thoroughly 
determined  how  to  act.  She  must  go  to  this  dinner  as  if 
nothing  had  happened.  She  must  meet  Belinda  as  she  had 
parted  from  her.  She  was  deeply  thankful  that  she  and 
the  girl  were  not  in  the  habit  of  exchanging  kisses.  Sophy 
had  strength  of  will,  but  not  enough  to  have  allowed  her 
to  kiss  Belinda  or  receive  her  kiss  that  evening.  And  as 
she  thought  of  the  girl's  brilliant,  sensual  mouth,  and  of 
that  other  mouth  to  which  it  had  lately  clung — she  blushed 
hot,  then  cold — for  that  icy  tingle  through  all  her  blood 
was  like  a  cold  and  bitter  blush. 

She  spent  unusual  thought  in  selecting  her  toilette  for 
that  evening.  She  desired  to  look  the  antithesis  of  Belinda, 
so  she  chose  a  gown  of  dead  white  embroidered  in  crystal. 
She  wished  to  sign  herself  to  herself,  as  no  longer  belong 
ing  to  Morris — so  she  wore  with  it  a  circlet  of  little  dia 
mond  flames,  one  of  Gerald's  gifts  to  her. 

But  little  by  little  her  mood  of  lofty  disdain  passed 
finally  into  still,  hot  anger.  This  flashed  its  fire  into  her 
eyes  and  cheeks.  As  Louise  -set  the  diadem  of  frosty- 
flames  in  place,  she  remarked  with  conviction : 

"Madame  n'a  pas  cte  aussi  en  beaute  depnis  long- 
temps.  ..." 

Sophy  had  the  strangest  sense  of  triumph  in  defeat,  of 
dark  exultation  as  she  went  slowly  downstairs  towards  the 
drawing-room — the  age-old  exultation  of  the  deposed  queen 
who  feels  that  her  beauty  is  greater  than  that  of  her  sup- 
planter. 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  433 


XXXII 

BELINDA  and  Loring  were  already  in  the  drawing-room 
when  she  entered.  Belinda  stood  by  a  table  fingering  a 
vase  of  Hortensias.  She  broke  one  off  just  then  and 
twirled  it  nervously.  Loring  was  lighting  a  cigarette.  It 
seemed  troublesome  to  light.  His  hand  shook  a  little. 

Sophy  paused  just  within  the  door,  drawing  on  her 
gloves,  her  eyes  on  Belinda.  The  pale,  mauve-blue  flower 
against  the  girl's  flame-coloured  gown  made  an  odd,  de 
cadent  note.  She  was  all  in  red  chiffon — a  silver  girdle 
about  her  waist — poppies  with  silver  hearts  over  one  ear. 
"  'Colour  of  blood  .  .  .  colour  of  my  heart'  ..."  Sophy 
thought,  and  it  was  hard  to  keep  her  lip  from  curling  to 
the  sneer  in  her  thought. 

She  spoke  while  still  busied  with  her  gloves.  She  said 
that  she  hoped  Belinda's  trip  had  been  pleasant.  Belinda 
said,  Thanks,  that  it  had  been  "bully."  Sophy  then 
glanced  at  the  clock.  It  was  only  a  quarter  to  eight. 

"How  very  punctual  we  all  are  to-night  ..."  she  said. 

Loring  said,  as  if  surprised:  "By  Jove!  Yes  ...  so 
we  are. ' ' 

He,  too,  looked  earnestly  at  the  clock.  A  self-conscious 
laugh  followed  his  words. 

Belinda  remarked  that  as  her  dinner  was  at  eight  she 
wasn  't  so  very  early.  ' '  I  ought  to  be  going  now  ..."  she 
concluded. 

Sophy  finished  fastening  her  gloves  and  came  forward. 
One  of  the  side  lights  caught  her  full  as  she  did  so,  and 
her  white  figure  sprang  out  against  the  shadows  of  the  room 
beyond  with  the  glitter  of  snow-spray  in  sunlight. 

She  saw  Loring  glance  at  her,  then  look  away.  Belinda, 
her  chin  a  little  down,  gazed  steadily.  Sophy  came  still 
nearer.  She  had  been  so  pale  and  listless  of  late  that  the 
delicate,  soft  fire  of  her  cheeks,  and  the  dark,  bright  fire 
of  her  eyes  was  doubly  striking.  The  little  tongues  of 
flame  that  lit  her  hair  dazzled  with  iridescence.  Her  gown, 
the  jewels  in  her  hair,  the  light  in  her  dark  eyes — all  were 
quivering,  glinting.  But  she  herself  was  very  still.  This 
intense,  composed  stillness  of  hers  seemed  to  make  the 
others  restless.  They  fidgeted — Belinda  with  the  blue  flow 
ers,  Loring  with  another  cigarette. 


434  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

Suddenly  Belinda  said  spasmodically: 

"You  are  gorgeous  to-night,  ain't  you?" 

"You  like  my  gown?"  asked  Sophy,  smiling. 

"Ripping,"  said  Belinda. 

' '  I  rather  like  it  myself, ' '  said  Sophy.  ' '  I  hope  you  like 
it,  too,  Morris?" 

"Awfully  smart  .  .  .  you  look  awfully  well  .  .  ."  he 
murmured. 

Belinda  left  off  fingering  the  flowers. 

"I  really  ought  to  be  going."  she  said. 

"Yes.  It's  about  time  for  you  to  go  now,"  assented 
Sophy. 

Her  tone  was  quite  even,  yet  at  something  in  it  those 
two  winced. 

Sophy  had  a  cruel  moment. 

"Do  you  know,"  she  said,  "you  and  Morris  both  seem 
rather  overstrung  to  me.  What's  the  matter?  You  haven't 
been  quarrelling  again  already,  have  you?" 

Neither  answered.  Sophy  repeated  it.  "Have  you?" 
she  said  again. 

"No,"  said  Loring. 

Belinda  had  taken  up  her  wrap  from  a  chair  and  was 
going  towards  the  door. 

"I  think  the  carriage  must  be  there  ..."  she  said  in  a 
high,  artifically  anxious  voice  as  she  went.  She  almost 
ran  into  the  arms  of  Siinme,  who  had  come  to  announce  the 
brougham. 

Sophy  stood  smiling  and  looking  after  her.  Then,  still 
smiling,  she  turned  to  Loring.  It  was  a  peculiar  smile. 

"Will  you  tell  me  what  has  happened,  Morris?"  she 
said,  and  he  thought  her  tone  also  very  peculiar. 

"  'Happened'?  .  .  .  Why,  nothing,"  he  stammered. 

He  was  appalled  to  hear  himself  stammering.  He  won 
dered  with  panic  what  his  expression  was  like.  It  was  in 
fact  so  puerile  in  its  look  of  nervous  guilt  that  Sophy  was 
wrung  with  sudden  shame  for  them  both — for  the  man  who 
looked  at  her  with  that  weak,  apprehensive  smirk  that  sat 
so  oddly  on  his  pale  face — for  herself  who  had  stooped  to 
bring  it  there.  She  turned  away,  saying:  "We'd  better 
be  going,  too,  I  think." 

There  was  a  biting  acid  of  pain  at  work  on  her  heart 
now.  To  have  seen  that  look  on  his  face — to  have  brought 
it  there!  She,  who  had  once  been  "Selene"  to  him. 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  435 

Loring  stood  gazing  after  her  as  she  walked  from  him 
into  the  hall.  Her  beauty  struck  him  as  startling.  But  it 
struck  him  as  the  beauty  of  the  Snow  Queen  struck  Rudi. 
It  left  a  sliver  of  ice  in  his  heart.  He  was  rather  scared  by 
something  in  her  whole  look  and  air.  He  wondered  if 
Linda  had  noticed  it.  He'd  have  to  talk  things  out  with 
Linda  to-morrow — take  her  for  a  long  walk — off  on  the 
rocks  somewhere.  Things' must  be  got  into  shape  somehow. 
He  had  a  spasm  of  sheer  terror  when  he  thought  that 
Sophy  might  suspect  something.  Yet  he  couldn't  give  up 
Belinda.  Yet  he  did  not  want  to  give  up  Sophy.  Here 
again  was  the  impenetrable  wall  and  the  irresistible  ball. 
He  had  not  yet  realised  that  he  alone  was  not  the  arbiter 
of  their  three  destinies.  He  thought  that  it  still  remained 
with  him  to  say  what  the  future  should  or  should  not  be 
for  himself,  for  Belinda,  for  Sophy. 

A  dance  followed  the  dinner  to  which  they  went  that 
night.  And  Sophy  danced  for  the  first  time  in  several 
weeks. 

As  soon  as  Amaldi  saw  her,  with  that  tense,  bright  fever 
of  beauty  upon  her,  he  knew  that  she  was  at  some  crisis. 
Something  of  this  look  she  had  had  that  night  in  London 
when  he  first  met  her.  What  was  it?  What  had  brought 
this  strange,  "fatal"  look  to  her?  Love  and  apprehension 
strung  him  to  the  utmost  pitch.  For  he  had  seen  agony 
under  her  bright  cloak  of  exaltation.  He  feared  now  that 
he  must  have  been  mistaken.  That  her  love  for  Loring  still 
survived.  .  .  .  That  this  crisis  at  which  she  was  came 
probably  from  the  sudden  discovery  of  how  matters  stood 
between  her  husband  and  Belinda  Horton. 

To  Sophy  that  night  was  horrible.  She  did  not  even  try 
to  sleep.  She  rushed  to  and  fro  among  throngs  of  turbu 
lent  thoughts,  like  a  lost  child  in  a  Carnival — like  one 
seeking  a  friend  among  frenzied  revellers.  Now  she  would 
think  that  she  had  found  it — the  thought  that  would  be 
friend  her.  Then  the  mask  would  slip,  and  she  would  see 
the  evil  leer  of  revenge,  or  hatred,  or  personal  malice,  or 
self-centred  wrath — not  once  the  kind  face  of  a  thought 
worthy  of  her.  But  towards  morning  it  came  to  her  of  its 
own  will.  She  lay  afterwards  with  closed  eyes,  spent  and 
lifeless.  That  mental  travail  had  been  terrible.  Now  her 
good  thought  lay  weakly  on  her  heart  like  a  babe  outworn 


also  by  the  fierce  struggle  of  birth.  It  seemed  scarcely  to 
live.  She  had  conceived  it  and  brought  it  forth,  but  it 
was  as  though  there  were  no  strength  in  it.  She  lay  there 
saying:  "God  .  .  .  help  .  .  .  help  .  .  ."as  she  had  said 
so  long  ago,  in  that  other  dreadful  time  at  Dynehurst. 
And  as  then,  little  by  little,  she  became  aware  as  it  were 
of  a  v^st  Presence,  and  from  this  Presence  there  seemed  to 
flow  the  help  for  which  she  had  cried. 

Belinda  and  Loring  met  very  early  in  the  lower  hall  as 
though  by  appointment.  Neither  had  they  slept  well,  but 
while  Loring  looked  pale  and  rather  haggard,  the  girl's 
face  was  fresh  and  beautifully  ruddy  with  sea-water  and 
defiant  passion.  She  had  come  up  from  her  morning  dip  in 
the  sea,  all  tingling  with  love  like  Anadyomene. 

They  had  fruit  and  coffee  together,  then  went  for  that 
"long  walk  to  the  rocks."  When  they  were  safely  out  of 
reach  of  prying  eyes,  Belinda  turned,  expecting  a  repeti 
tion  of  yesterday's  wild  embrace. 

But  Loring  sat  with  his  arms  about  his  knees.  He  looked 
harassed  and  rather  glum.  He  was  staring  at  the  sea.  Be 
linda  kept  her  eyes  on  him.  She  had  one  of  her  admirable 
silences.  She  half  knew  what  was  coming,  but  she  wanted 
Morry  to  "begin  it." 

"Linda,"  he  said  at  last,  still  scowling  at  the  milky -blue 
of  the  sea,  "I  rather  think  we're  up  against  it — you  and 
I.  .  .  ." 

Belinda's  eyes  narrowed  shrewdly. 

"What's  'it,'  Morry?"  she  asked. 

He  gave  a  jarring  little  laugh. 

"  'It'  is  ...  Sophy." 

"MhP'said  Belinda. 

"Did  it  strike  you  last  evening,"  he  went  on,  "that  she 
was  .  .  .  well  ...  er  ...  that  she  was  a  bit  on  to 
things?" 

"Yes  ...  it  did." 

"Well  ...  er  ...  have  you  any  notion  why  she  was 
like  that  ...  all  at  once  ...  so  suddenly?" 

Belinda  dropped  a  pebble  into  a  little  pool  in  the  rocks 
just  below  her.  She  leaned  over  looking  after  it.  Then  she 
dropped  in  another.  She  was  smiling  secretly.  Morris 
turned  his  head,  as  she  did  not  answer.  This  smile  nettled 
him.  somehow. 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  437 

"Well  .  .  .?    Speak  up,  can't  you?"  he  said  sharply. 

Belinda  dusted  her  fingers  daintily  on  her  handkerchief, 
then  laced  them  behind  her  head.  This  gesture  drew  the 
thin  silk  of  her  blouse  tight  over  her  round  breasts.  The 
little  hollow  behind  her  waist  as  she  leaned  against  the  dark 
rock  was  just  large  enough  for  a  man's  arm.  She  looked 
down  sideways  at  him  from  under  her  thick,  white  lids 
and  the  garnet  sparkles  came  into  her  eyes. 

She  passed  it  to  him  coolly. 

' '  Yesterday  .  .  .  when  we  were  in  the  library  together, ' ' 
she  said,  "I  ...  heard  a  chair  move  ...  in  the  next 
room.  ..." 

''What?"  cried  Loring. 

He  sat  erect.    His  face  went  scarlet,  then  white. 

"What?"  he  said  again. 

Belinda  nodded. 

"Just  that  ...  a  chair  .  .  .  scraped,  you  know,  as  if 
some  one  had  brushed  against  it  ...  in  a  hurry." 

Loring  had  his  lip  between  his  teeth.  His  eyes  looked 
black  as  when  he  had  been  drinking  heavily. 

"You  think  ...  it  was  .  .  .  Sophy?"  he  said  at  last. 

"Yes,  "said  Belinda. 

' '  Great  God ! ' '  groaned  Loring. 

Belinda's  face  changed.  She  took  down  her  arms,  and 
bent  forward. 

"Look  here,  Morry,"  said  she  in  a  low,  concentrated 
voice.  "You've  got  to  play  square  with  me." 

Loring  gave  her  a  decidedly  unloverlike  glare. 

"Oh,  confound  you,  Linda,"  he  growled,  "don't  turn 
heroics  on  me  at  this  hour  of  the  morning.  I  tell  you  we  're 
in  a  hell  of  a  mess." 

"I'm  not,"  said  Belinda. 

Loring  couldn't  help  a  grin. 

"You're  not,  hey?  Well,  I  like  your  colossal  cheek,"  he 
said. 

Belinda  shot  out  her  hand,  and  grasped  him  firmly  by 
the  arm  with  her  white,  soft  fingers  in  which  the  little 
bones  were  strong  as  steel. 

"You  look  at  me,  Morry,"  she  commanded.  "You  look 
me  right  in  the  eyes. ' ' 

He  did  so,  unwillingly. 

"Well?"  he  said. 

"I  want  you  to  understand,"  said  Belinda,  "that  when 


438  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

you  took  me  in  your  arms  yesterday  and  kissed  me  .  .  . 
like  that  .  .  .  you  took  me  for  good." 

1 '  Oh,  go  to  the  devil,  Linda !  I  tell  you  I  'm  not  in  the 
mood  for  high -mucky-muck  talk." 

"I  don't  care  what  mood  you're  in,  and  my  talk's  plain 
English,"  said  Belinda.  "You  played  with  me  two  years 
ago,  but  you  can't  play  with  me  now.  I  belong  to  the  man 
who  kissed  me  as  you  kissed  me  yesterday,  and  that  man 
belongs  to  me." 

"Oh,  for  God's  sake,  cut  it  out!"  said  Morris,  with  ex 
asperation.  "Who  do  you  think  you're  talking  to?  .  .  ." 

' '  The  man  that  belongs  to  me, ' '  retorted  Belinda  fiercely, 
gritting  her  white  teeth  at  him.  "The  man  that  belongs 
to  me  .  .  .  that  has  always  belonged  to  me  .  .  .  ever  since 
that  first  time  he  kissed  me  .  .  .  two  years  ago — when  I 
was  only  a  child.  ..." 

"I  don't  believe  you  ever  were  a  child,"  put  in  Loring 
moodily.  "I'll  bet  you  cast  some  unholy  spell  in  your 
cradle.  ..." 

"Well  .  .  .  whatever  I  was  or  wasn't — I'm  a  woman 
now,"  said  Belinda.  "A  woman  who  loves — who's  been 
loved  back — who'll  die  .  .  .  who'll  kill  before  she  sees  that 
love  wrenched  from  her." 

All  blazing,  she  threw  herself  suddenly  upon  his  breast. 
Her  soft  mouth  offered  itself — like  a  flower — fluttered  its 
honeyed,  crimson  petals  close  to  his.  Tears  of  rage  and 
love  magnified  her  ardent  eyes.  The  pulse  of  her  reckless 
young  breast  against  his  was  like  the  pulse  of  the  sea 
against  the  rock.  Loring  was  no  rock.  lie  hesitated — was 
lost — kissed  her  greedily.  Grew  mad  with  those  intemper 
ate  kisses  intemperately  returned.  Drank  and  drank  of 
the  honeyed,  flower-scented  mouth. 

"We  'belong'  ...  oh,  Morry!  say  we  belong  ..."  Be 
linda  kept  sobbing  without  tears,  the  quick  dry  sobs  of 
passion.  "/  belong  to  you  body  and  soul  .  .  .  you  belong 
to  me  body  and  soul  .  .  .  don't  you?  don't  you  .  .  .  body 
and  soul  ?  .  .  . " 

' '  Well  .  .  .  chiefly  body, ' '  said  Loring  thickly,  with  that 
short,  unpleasant  laugh. 


439 


XXXIII 


THEY  were  very  quiet  for  some  time  after  that  storm  of 
kisses  had  spent  itself.  Morris  leaned  back  languidly  in  a 
smooth  hollow  of  the  rocks.  Belinda  leaned  against  him. 
Her  head  was  on  his  breast,  her  arm  clinging  close  about 
him  under  his  coat.  The  buckle  of  his  waistcoat  cut  into 
her  arm,  but  she  loved  the  bite  of  the  little  piece  of  metal 
that  was  warm  with  his  body.  It  amused  and  thrilled  her 
both,  to  feel  the  everyday  intimacy  of  his  clothing  in  this 
sharp  pressure  of  the  buckle  that  nipped  her  soft  forearm. 
And  she  loved  the  feeling  of  his  strong,  lean  waist  breath 
ing  in  the  living  girdle  of  her  arm.  She  lay  in  a  daze  of 
happiness,  not  thinking  of  the  past  or  future,  or  even  of 
the  present  clearly.  She  was  being  fully — she  had  no  need 
of  thought. 

Morris's  voice  roused  her  with  a  start. 

' '  See  here,  Linda, ' '  he  was  saying.  ' '  This  is  all  very  fine 
— I'd  be  an  ungrateful  beggar  to  complain  if  we'd  only 
the  present  to  consider.  But  we've  jolly  well  got  to  con 
sider  a  good  deal  else." 

"Oh,  it'll  all  come  straight  of  itself,  Morry, "  she  mur 
mured  drowsily.  "Don't  bother  .  .  .  not  now  at  any 
rate.  .  .  ." 

"  'Now'  is  just  what's  got  to  be  bothered  about,  you 
reckless  witch.  .  .  .  We'll  have  the  house  about  our  ears 
if  we  go  on  like  this.  ..." 

"I  don't  care  what  comes  about  my  ears.  .  .  .  Your 
heart's  under  my  ear  now — that's  all  I  care  about.  ..." 

''Linda!  You  really  are  a  reckless  devilkin,  aren't 
you?" 

' '  Well  .  .  .  isn  't  it  nice  to  have  me  reckless  about  you  ? ' ' 

Loring  gave  his  short  laugh. 

''Oh,  it's  'nice'  enough,  I  grant  you.  But  nice  things 
have  a  rather  cussed  way  of  ending  nastily,  my  dear. ' ' 

"This  won't.  ..." 

"Come,  Linda.  Show  a  little  gumption.  You  say  you 
think  Sophy  probably  ...  er  ...  was  probably  in  the 
next  room  .  .  .  yesterday.  Well,  granting  that,  do  you 
think  things  are  going  calmly  on  the  way  we  like  'em?" 

"Of  course  you'll  have  to  have  a  plain  talk  with  her," 
said  Belinda,  her  voice  taking  a  practical  note. 


440 

Morris  gave  her  a  little  shake  as  she  lay  within  his  arm. 
She  laughed  softly. 

"My  God!  but  you're  a  cool  proposition,"  he  said,  half 
laughing,  too,  half  exasperated  again. 

"I'm  not  cool  to  you,"  wooed  Belinda. 

"No,  you're  not,"  he  answered  shortly.  "And  that's 
just  the  devil  of  it  for  both  of  us." 

"Do  you  want  me  to  be  cool?"  teased  Belinda. 

"No,  I  don't.    And  that's  the  devil  again." 

"Well,  what  do  you  want?" 

He  might  have  replied  truthfully  that  what  he  wanted 
was  for  Lawlessness  and  Law  to  kiss  each  other  and  abide 
in  a  beautiful  serenity  together.     But  he  had  not  formu- 
I  lated  his  own  state  of  mind  clearly  enough  to  put  it  thus. 

I  The  worst  part  of  his  distress  was  that  it  was  so  "mud 

dled."  The  Son  of  Sirach  could  have  explained  ft  sternly 
to  him.  "Woe  to  the  sinner  that  goeth  two  ways,"  would 
have  been  his  comment. 

I  "See  here,  Linda,"  said  Loring  again.     "You  talk  con 

foundedly  chipper  about  my  'having  a  plain  talk'  with 
Sophy.  Have  you  thought  what  this  plain  talk  may  lead 
to?" 

"Divorce,"  said  Belinda  calmly. 

Loring  sprang  up  so  violently  that  she  was  tilted  from 
his  side.  He  clutched  her  just  in  time  to  keep  her  from 
rolling  on  to  the  pebbles. 

"Look  here,"  he  said,  very  white.  "I've  been  rather  a 
cad  to  make  love  to  you  as  I've  done  .  .  .  but  I'm  not  an 
out  and  out  scoundrel." 

Belinda  faced  him,  as  white  as  he,  brow  and  hands 
clenched. 

"You  will  be,"  she  said  through  her  locked  teeth,  "if 
you  don't  divorce  and  marry  me." 

"My  God  ..."  breathed  Loring,  actually  bewildered 
by  her  utter  disregard  of  all  principle.  "  Where  'd  you 
come  from?  .  .  .  What  are 'you?  .  .  ."  He  went  close 
and  caught  her  fiercely  by  both  arms.  "  What  are  you,  you 
little,  lawless  wildfire?"  he  repeated. 

"I'm  your  heart's  desire  .  .  .  your  heart's  desire  ..." 
she  crooned,  half  mocking,  half  cajoling. 

He  dropped  her  arms  and  turned  away.  The  touch  of 
her  had  set  him  in  a  fever  again.  Nothing  would  come 
clearly  to  him.  He  raged  against  her  in  his  heart,  but 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  441 

the  tide  of  his  blood  set  resistlessly  towards  her.  He  stood 
with  his  back  to  her,  biting  his  knuckles,  glowering  out  at 
the  bright  sea. 

Belinda  waited,  with  her  little  secret  smile.  She  loved 
the  aching  of  her  arms  where  his  fierce  grip  had  bruised 
her.  She  was  very  sure  of  him.  She  waited  for  him  to 
come  back  as  patiently  as  a  fisherman  waits  for  the  up-rush 
of  a  pike  that  is  sulking  under  the  boat.  Belinda  rocked 
gently  in  the  boat  of  her  own  love,  and  waited  with  smiling 
patience  for  her  sulky  lover  to  rejoin  her. 

But  when  Loring  did  finally  turn  to  her  again,  his  mood 
was  not  at  all  the  lover's.  He  spoke  with  hard,  deliberate 
precision,  biting  oft3  the  words  at  her,  as  it  were. 

"If  you  expect  me  to  insult  a  woman  like  Sophy  and 
ruin  her  life  to  please  you,  you're  rather  thoroughly  mis 
taken,"  he  said. 

Belinda  eyed  him  curiously.  Then  she  made  a  great 
mistake.  Instinct  had  kept  her  from  making  it  before. 
Now  self-will  smothered  instinct.  She  was  so  bent  on  mak 
ing  Morris  see  this  question  as  she  saw  it,  and  without 
further  loss  of  time,  that  she  had  recourse  to  an  heroic 
method. 

' '  Are  you  really  as  blind  as  you  seem  to  be,  Morry  ? ' '  she 
asked. 

' '  '  Blind '  ?  "  said  Loring,  rather  taken  aback. 

" Exactly— stone  blind." 

He  said  with  stiffness: 

"I  don't  catch  your  meaning." 

"Well  ...  do  you  really  think  that  Sophy  will  mind 
divorcing?" 

Loring  stared  at  her  blankly.     Then  he  flushed. 

' '  Are  you  insinuating  that  she  doesn  't  care  for  me  ? "  he 
demanded. 

Belinda  eyed  him  again  in  that  sly,  incredulous  way. 
Then  she  said : 

"And  do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  you  haven't  noticed 
a  thing  of  what's  going  on  between  her  and  the  dago?" 

' '  What  the  devil  are  you  after  ? "  he  cried  angrily.  ' '  I  '11 
thank  you  not  to  hint  things  about  Sophy.  She's  as  high 
above  you  as  the  stars — that 's  what ! ' ' 

"Oh — a  kite's  high  above  me,  too,"  said  Belinda  airily. 
"What  I'm  'hinting'  as  you  call  it  is  only  what  any  one 
with  eyes  in  his  head  couldn't  help  seeing." 


442 

"Come  .  .  .  speak  out!"  said  Loring  roughly. 

Belinda  gave  a  sharp  sigh,  as  of  disgusted  patience. 

' '  Why  any  'baby  can  see  that  she  and  Ainaldi  are  in  love 
with  each  other,"  she  flung  at  him.  "Now  why  do  you 
gape  at  me  like  that?  I  dare  say  it  began  years  ago — in 
Italy,  where  she  saw  so  much  of  him.  ..." 

Loring  could  not  articulate. 

"Amaldi!"  he  stammered  at  last.  "Why,  the  fellow's 
sweet  on  you!" 

' '  Pooh ! ' '  said  Belinda.  ' '  He  only  flirted  about  with  me 
a  bit  to  make  her  jealous.  ..." 

"To  make  .  .  .  Sophy  .  .  .  jealous?" 

Loring  was  talking  like  a  sleep-walker,  slowly,  with  thick 
utterance. 

Belinda  began  to  feel  a  little  uneasy  at  the  very  potent 
effect  of  her  disclosure.  This  was  a  queer,  new  Morris 
staring  at  her.  She  might  have  been  a  phonograph  that 
contained  some  record  important  to  him,  for  all  the  con 
sciousness  of  her  personality  in  his  blank  stare.  He  looked 
at  her  a  good  deal  as  a  man  looks  at  the  nearest  object 
when  coming  to  after  a  severe  blow  on  the  head.  This 
stare  of  his  irritated  Belinda  and  rather  scared  her  at 
the  same  time.  Had  she  gone  too  far?  What  was  there  in 
it  so  shocking  for  Morry,  since  he  loved  her,  Belinda?  She 
had  thought  that  he  would  jump  at  the  easy  solution  of 
their  problem  that  it  afforded. 

She  went  up  to  him,  and  laid  her  hand  on  his  breast. 

"Wake  up,  Morry  ..."  she  said.  "Why  in  the  world 
should  you  take  it  like  this?  You  look  positively 
doped.  ..." 

Morris  caught  her  hand  in  a  grip  that  was  too  painful, 
even  for  Belinda's  amorous  temperament.  She  gave  an 
angry  little  miaul  of  pain. 

"Linda  .  .  .  you  little  fiend!  .  .  ."he  was  saying 
hoarsely.  "You've  made  this  up.  ...  I  know  you  .  .  . 
all  the  tricks  of  the  trade.  .  .  .  What  d  'you  mean,  by  it,  eh  ? 
What  do  you  mean  by  slandering  my  wife?  ..."  He 
shook  her  to  and  fro.  "  Eh  ?'  .  .  .  Tell  me  that.  .  .  .  What 
d'you  mean?  .  .  .  How  d'you  dare?  ...  Eh?  ...  Tell 
me  that.  ..." 

Belinda  gave  him  back  his  savage  looks  full  measure. 

"You're  a  fool  ..."  she  sobbed,  raging.    "You're  just 


443 

a  common  or  garden  fool,  Morry !  I  can't  help  that,  can  I? 
Let  me  go !  .  .  .  It 's  not  my  fault  if  you  're  a  fool  ...  a 
fool  ...  a  fool.  .  .  ." 

He  flung  her  from  him  so  that  she  stumbled.  He  saw 
red  .  .  .  black  .  .  .  red  again.  He  felt  choking — murder 
ous.  Mere  sensual  love  runs  like  this,  from  desire  to  hate 
and  back  again,  to  and  fro,  "swifter  than  a  weaver's 
shuttle."  At  the  present  moment  he  had  only  hate  for 
Belinda.  She  herself  had  lashed  awake  his  jealousy  for 
another  woman  by  her  miscalculated  cunning.  Sophy  was 
his — Jiis.  How  dare  she  so  much  as  look  at  another  man? 
And  this  little  devil  dared  to  say  that  she  loved.  .  .  .  He 
was  really  transfigured  by  rage.  Even  Belinda  the  daunt 
less  shrank  from  him.  She  had  unstopped  a  very  small 
vessel  of  malice  and  out  of  it  had  arisen  a  black  smoke 
obscuring  all  her  golden  heaven  of  love,  and  congealing 
before  her  into  this  fierce,  wry-faced  Afrit  of  a  man.  She 
had  never  seen  the  male  in  the  grip  of  real  jealousy  before 
— the  man-tiger  sensing  the  defection  of  his  mate.  It  horri 
fied  her,  infuriated  her,  filled  her  with  a  curiously  helpless 
sense  of  dismay. 

He  turned  suddenly  and  strode  away  from  her.  Then 
she  found  her  voice  again. 

' '  Morry ! "  she  called.    ' '  Morry ! ' ' 

He  paid  not  the  slightest  heed.  She  ran  after  him, 
caught  him  up,  panting. 

"Don't  go  off  half-cocked  like  this,"  she  gasped,  running 
at  his  side,  for  he  was  literally  running  himself  now  over 
the  rough  shingle.  ' '  I  never  meant  to  hint  anything  really 
wrong  you  know." 

She  might  have  been  the  waves  that  babbled  along  the 
shore. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?  ...  Don't  do  anything 
now.  .  .  .  You'll  be  sorry.  ..." 

He  ran  on.  She  kept  up  with  him.  They  looked  quite 
splendid,  running  shoulder  to  shoulder  through  the  fresh 
morning  air,  against  the  background  of  glinting  water. 

"Morry  .  .  .  answer  me.  ..." 

She  was  less  to  him  than  the  air;  he  had  to  breathe  the 
air — he  had  no  need  for  Belinda  just  then,  in  any  way. 
But  when  they  had  reached  the  levels  where  other  people 
passed  to  and  fro,  he  turned  on  her.  He  really  looked 


444  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

dangerous.  All  the  brute  was  up  in  him — all  in  him  that 
a  man  at  Polo  had  once  called  "howling  cad."  This  cad 
now  howled  at  Belinda.  She  cowered  under  it. 

"I  guess  even  you  know  when  a  man's  had  enough  of 
you,"  he  flung  in  her  white  face.  She  dropped  back  as 
though  she  had  been  spat  upon.  He  strode  on,  exulting  to 
be  rid  of  her. 


XXXIV 

As  he  reached  the  house,  he  met  Amaldi  coming  from  it. 
It  was  only  eleven  o'clock  in  the  morning,  an  odd  hour  to 
call,  but  Amaldi  had  not  been  to  call,  he  had  only  stopped 
by  for  a  moment  to  leave  some  music  that  he  had  promised 
Sophy.  He  was  most  anxious  to  have  news  of  her  after  his 
anxiety  about  her  last  evening.  So  he  took  this  excuse  to 
stop  in. 

The  butler  said  that  Mrs.  Loring  had  breakfasted  but 
had  not  come  down  yet.  It  was  only  when  the  man  told 
him  that  Sophy  had  breakfasted  that  Amaldi  realised  how 
anxious  he  really  had  been.  Then  he  turned  away  and 
was  face  to  face  with  Loring. 

The  young  man  gave  him  the  barest,  surly  nod.  His 
expression  was  singularly  hateful.  Amaldi  could  not  quite 
make  it  out.  Loring  had  always  been  perfectly  negative  in 
his  manner  to  him,  except  when  goaded  to  a  passing  jeal 
ousy  by  Belinda.  On  those  occasions  he  had  usually  flung 
out  of  the  room.  Now  Amaldi  felt  hatred  in  the  fleeting 
insolence  of  the  look  that  brushed  across  his  face  as  Loring 
passed.  Was  this  unaccountable,  moody  being  going  to 
take  sudden  umbrage  at  his  friendship  with  Sophy?  He 
went  on  his  way  heavy  of  heart,  anxious  and  disquieted 
again. 

Loring  was  met  by  Simms  with  a  message.  Mrs.  Loring 
would  like  to  see  Mr.  Loring  as  soon  as  he  came  in.  Mrs. 
Loring  was  upstairs  in  her  W7riting-room. 

So  she  had  not  seen  that  "damned  dago"!  His  anger 
dropped  slightly.  Perhaps  it  was  only  some  of  Belinda's 
deviltry  after  all.  He  went  quickly  towards  the  stairway, 
then  slowed  down  a  bit.  It  had  just  come  over  him  what 
was  probably  Sophy's  reason  for  desiring  this  interview. 
What  if  she  had  really  been  in  the  next  room  as  Belinda 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  445 

thought?  "What  if  she  had  seen  and  heard?  And  if  she 
taxed  him  with  it  how  should  he  act?  What  should  he 
answer?  His  thoughts  whirled  like  the  thoughts  of  one 
coming  out  of  chloroform. 

He  went  doggedly  on,  after  two  pauses,  and  knocked  at 
the  door  of  Sophy 's  study. 

"Come  in,  Morris,"  she  said  at  once. 

He  entered  and,  closing  the  door,  remained  near  it  an 
instant,  looking  at  her.  Then  he  came  slowly  forward. 

She  had  been  writing.  She  put  aside  her  portfolio  as  he 
came  in.  Her  figure  in  its  white  muslin  gown  lay  sunk  in 
the  green  hollow  of  her  chair,  very  listless.  All  the  feverish 
light  of  the  past  evening  had  faded  from  her  face.  Her 
eyes  looked  soft,  grey  and  tired  in  their  deep  shadows. 
They  rested  on  his  face  with  a  sad  depth  of  maternity  that 
he  could  not  at  all  fathom.  He  was  uneasy  under  this  look, 
yet  it  had  no  reproach  in  it.  It  was  the  look  most  terrible 
to  Love.  Hatred  does  not  wither  him  like  that  look.  It 
comes  from  the  heart  that,  comprehending  all,  has  forgiven 
all.  To  forgive  all,  one  must  detach  oneself,  become  im 
personal.  Sophy  was  now  regarding  Loring  from  this 
standpoint  of  absolute  detachment.  Even  the  maternity  in 
her  look  and  feeling  was  impersonal — the  abstract  sense  of 
motherhood  with  which  Eve,  leaning  from  the  ramparts  of 
her  regained  Paradise,  might  regard  mankind.  Loring  was 
not  a  man  to  Sophy  that  morning — he  was  mankind — a 
symbol.  She,  the  woman,  symbolised  the  Mother. 

It  was  this  in  her  look  that  made  Loring  ill  at  ease, 
vaguely  apprehensive.  But  it  was  a  look,  to  his  mind,  so 
out  of  keeping  with  what  he  had  feared  might  be  the 
reason  of  her  sending  for  him,  that  he  decided  with  intense 
relief  that  his  conjecture  must  have  been  a  mistaken  one. 

"Hope  you're  not  feeling  very  seedy,"  he  said  con 
strainedly.  "You  look  a  bit  done,  you  know." 

"Yes — I'm  tired.  Won't  you  sit  in  that  other  chair? 
It's  more  comfortable." 

He  shifted  to  the  other  chair,  feeling  more  and  more  ill 
at  ease.  As  she  did  not  sgeak  at  once,  he  said  nervously: 

"You  sent  for  me,  didn't  you?" 

"Yes,"  she  said.    "I  was  only  thinking  how  to  begin." 

Then  she  looked  into  his  eyes  with  a  clear,  direct  look. 

"Morris,"  she  said.  "I  am  ashamed  of  something  I  did 
last  night.  I  don't  make  any  excuse — but  I'm  very,  very 


446  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

much  ashamed.  ...  It  was  the  way  that  I  spoke  to  you 
and  Belinda,  when  I  came  down  to  the  drawing-room — 
just  before  we  went  out  to  dinner.  ..." 

"Now,  really,  Sophy—  '  he  began.  He  thought  she 
was  at  some  of  her  "highbrow"  subtleties.  "I  assure  you 
that  neither  of  us  .  .  ." 

Sophy  broke  in  hastily. 

"Wait,  Morris  ...  I  haven't  done.  I'm  ashamed  be 
cause  I  pretended  not  to  know — how  things  were  between 
you  two — and  I  did  know. ' ' 

As  she  said  these  words  she  flushed  as  deeply  as  Loring 
did  in  hearing  them.  But  she  kept  right  on — she  forced 
her  eyes  to  remain  on  his. 

"I  was  in  the  next  room  .  .  .  yesterday.  I  ...  I  ... 
saw  ..." 

" For  God 's  sake !  .  .  .  don't!"  exclaimed  Loring,  jump 
ing  up.  He  was  white  now. 

Sophy  took  away  her  eyes  from  that  white  face.  For 
all  her  impersonality  of  mood,  that  \vhite,  aghast  face  of 
his  hurt  her  cruelly.  The  shame  on  it  hurt  her.  It  made 
her  feel  desperately  ashamed,  too. 

He  went  to  the  window  and  stood  looking  out,  his  back 
towards  her.  And  in  the  very  lines  of  his  back  there  was 
shame.  And  this  shame  wrung  her,  struck  to  her  inmost 
self.  Oh,  how  humiliating  it  all  was !  .  .  .  for  them  both ! 
How  she  felt  as  though  they  were  groping  towards  each 
other  through  mire. 

She  caught  at  all  her  force  of  will. 

"It's  no  use,  Morris  ..."  she  said  very  low.  "We 
must  talk  frankly.  ...  I  hate  it  as  much  as  you  do.  .  .  . 
Oh,  I  hate  it  ...  I  loathe  it!"  she  ended  with  an  irre 
pressible  cry  from  her  sick  heart. 

He  turned  at  that,  his  head  down. 

"Why  must  we?"  he  said  thickly. 

"Because  it's  got  to  be  clear  ...  it's  got  to  be  straight 
between  us,"  she  returned  passionately.  Her  breast  was 
heaving.  She  put  up  her  arm  across  it  as  though  to  hold 
it  quiet  by  force.  She  had  felt  so  calm,  had  been  so  sure 
of  her  calmness.  Now  her  heart  was  bounding  as  though 
it  would  leap  from  her  body.  He  turned  again  to  the 
window,  and  she  sat  silent  until  something  of  calmness  had 
come  back  to  her. 

' '  Don 't  stand  so  far  away, ' '  she  then  said  hurriedly,  and 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  447 

half  under  her  breath.  "Come  nearer.  I  ...  I  am  not 
.  .  .  angry.  I  don't  want  to  speak  loud.  .  .  .  Some  one 
might  hear." 

He  came  nearer.  He  could  not  find  any  words.  He 
had  no  thoughts  which  words  would  have  expressed.  But 
Sophy  was  regaining  control  of  herself.  Some  of  the  oft- 
rehearsed  sentences  were  coming  back  to  her.  Now  they 
were  more  or  less  in  order.  She  uttered  one,  speaking 
clearly,  in  a  rather  expressionless  voice. 

"Morris  ..."  she  said,  "how  much  do  you  care  for 
Belinda?" 

He  stared  gloomily  at  the  carpet. 

' '  I  rather  think  I  hate  her, ' '  he  said. 

Scorn  choked  Sophy.  She  could  not  speak  again,  either, 
for  a  moment.  Then  she  said : 

"The  person  you  have  got  to  consider  chiefly  in  all  this 
is  Belinda." 

Now  he  stared  at  her. 

"Belinda?"  he  stammered. 

Sophy's  face  and  voice  grew  hot.  It  seemed  as  though 
even  Fate's  bludgeonings  couldn't  drub  impulse  out  of  her. 
She  wrestled  now  with  this  impulse  for  a  moment.  It  got 
the  better  of  her. 

"For  shame!"  she  cried.  "Oh  .  .  .  for  shame!  for 
shame!  A  young  girl  ...  in  your  own  house  .  .  .  you 
treat  her  like  that  .  .  .  your  own  kinswoman.  .  .  .  Oh, 
yes !  I  know.  .  .  .  But  by  bringing-up  she  is  your  kins 
woman.  .  .  .  You  do  this  .  .  .  you  do  this  ..."  She  was 
stammering  with  the  heavy  heart-beats  that  again  suffo 
cated  her.  "And  then  ...  to  me  .  .  .  you  speak  .  .  . 
Oh,  let  me"  breathe ! ' '  she  cried,  and  stood  up  as  if  throwing 
off  some  intolerable  weight. 

Loring  stood  changing  from  red  to  white,  from  white  to 
red.  His  eyes  shone  sullenly.  His  head  was  lowered  in 
that  way  she  knew.  He  looked  up  at  her  defiantly  from 
under  the  beautiful  arch  of  the  brows  that  she  had  once 
loved.  ' '  Well  ?  .  .  .  And  what  course  has  your  superiority 
mapped  out  for  me  ? "  he  sneered  finally. 

She  said  in  a  cold  voice : 

"I  have  'mapped  out'  nothing.  But  there  seems  only 
one  way  to  me.  ...  To  be  quite  truthful  about  it  all. 
Then  ...  to  act  truly." 

He  gave  his  ugly  little  laugh. 


448  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

"Perhaps  you'll  favour  me  with  your  ideas  on  'acting 
truly'?" 

"I  will.    You  love  this  girl.  ..." 

"Damn  it!  I've  told  you  I  hate  her!"  he  broke  out 
violently. 

She  tried  hard  to  keep  the  contempt  out  of  her  voice. 
"You  can  hardly  expect  me  to  accept  that,  Morris,"  she 
said  gravely. 

"Why  not?  You're  so  precious  anxious  for  the  truth. 
That's  the  truth.  Now  you  say  you  won't  'accept'  it.  .  .  ." 

Sophy  sank  wearily  into  her  chair  again.  She  found  that 
it  made  her  giddy  to  stand.  Her  hands  were  damp  and 
cold.  She  felt  physically  ill.  She  covered  her  eyes  for  a 
moment,  and  in  the  momentary  darkness  her  truest  self 
whispered  to  her. 

She  uncovered  her  face  and  looked  at  him  with  that  first 
gentle,  quiet,  to  him  inexplicable,  look. 

"Morris,"  she  said  softly,  "don't  you  see?  I  want  to 
be  your  friend — really  your  friend  in  all  this.  I  ...  I 
understand  how  it  lias  happened.  Yes  .  .  .  better  than 
you  do  perhaps.  We  .  .  .  we  have  drifted  apart.  Oh, 
don't  think  I'm  reproaching  you—  '  she  interrupted 
herself  proudly.  "If  you'll  look  back  ...  to  ...  to 
.  .  .  that  time  ...  in  Virginia.  When  ..." 

She  couldn't  go  on  for  a  moment. 

"When  that  glamour  was  on  us  both."  she  continued. 
"You'll  remember  that  I  told  you  ...  I  warned  you  .  .  . 
that  it  was  glamour  .  .  .  that  some  day  .  .  .  some 
day  .  .  ." 

No.  She  could  not  go  on.  Love — when  it  has  been  real, 
if  only  for  an  hour — is  always  sacred.  She  sat  very  white, 
her  chin  in  her  hand,  her  eyes  downcast. 

There  was  all  about  her  the  atmosphere  of  that  wild, 
windy  night  when,  as  she  sat  alone  in  the  old  house,  he 
had  rushed  in  to  her  like  the  very  Magic  of  Youth.  .  .  . 

Still  looking  down,  she  said  presently: 

"Won't  you  even  let  me  be  your  true  friend,  Morris?" 

Very  huskily  he  said  : 

"Well  ...  I  ought  to  be  grateful  for  that  much.  ..." 

It  was  all  horribly  sad.  She  felt  faint  with  the  wasteful, 
useless  sadness  of  it  all. 

"What  did  you  think  of  ...  of  proposing?"  he  asked, 
still  in  that  husky,  beaten  voice. 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  449 

Sophy's  own  voice  trembled  a  little  when  she  spoke. 

"I  think  this,  Morris,"  she  said.  "I  think  your  life 
ought  to  be  free  ...  to  offer  to  Belinda." 

'  'Free'?  ...  to  offer  .  .  .  'free'?"  he  gasped. 

"I  am  willing  to  set  you  free.  ..."  she  said. 

There  was  silence.  It  lasted  so  long  that  she  lifted  her 
eyes  to  his  face.  The  look  on  it  appalled  her  ...  a  sort 
of  blasted  look,  as  though  rage  had  struck  like  lightning. 

"Are  you  .  .  .  are  you  .  .  ."  he  tried  to  get  out  his 
question.  Choked  on  it.  He  tore  it  out  finally.  "Are  you 
suggesting  divorce  to  me  ? ' ' 

"It  is  the  only  straight,  honest  way  out  of  this  .  .  .  this 
tangle,  Morris." 

"You  .  .  .  you  .  .  .  suggest  divorce?  Like  that? 
Coolly  .  .  .  damned  coolly  ...  as  you  might  suggest  a 
drive  .  .  .  a  walk  .  .  .?  Divorce?  .  .  .  You?" 

He  jumped  up,  his  face  all  distorted.  He  seized  the  chair 
in  which  he  had  been  sitting  and  dashed  it  with  all  his 
might  against  the  wall.  It  fell  in  splinters. 

' '  Hell ! "  he  almost  sobbed  at  her.  ' '  Dp  you  too  take  me 
for  a  fool?  ...  'A  common  or  garden  fool'?  .  .  .  Do  you, 
I  say !  .  .  .  Now,  then !  Out  with  it !  I  'm  a  soft  fool  you 
think.  Hey? — The  sort  of  little,  tame  husband-fool  that 
never  feels  his  budding  antlers,  till  he  sheds  'em  in  the 
divorce  court?  Hey?  That's  what  .  .  .  is  it?  You 
think  so?  .  .  ." 

He  was  so  incoherent  with  fury,  that  she  could  scarcely 
understand  half  of  what  he  said.  The  saliva  churned 
at  the  corners  of  his  mouth  in  the  frenzy  of  his  sudden 
madness  of  jealous  rage  and  suspicion.  He'd  show  her 
he  saw  through  her  noble  unselfishness.  She  and  her 
dago ! 

Sophy  stared  at  him  in  horror.  She  thought  that  his 
brain  had  given  way. 

"Morris  .  .  .  Morris  ..."  she  kept  murmuring. 

"O  God  .  .  ."  he  choked.  "God  .  .  .  God  that  you 
should  take  me  for  a  sucking  fool — you  and  your  dago 
.  .  .  you  and  your  little  Lombard  mucker.  .  .  .  You ! — To 
me!  .  .  .  for  my  sake!  .  .  .  'Divorce'!  .  .  .  Set  me 
free!  .  .  ." 

He  dropped  across  a  table,  hugging  himself,  shivering 
with  stridulant,  choked  laughter.  He  shook  with  it — was 
convulsed  with  it  as  with  throes  of  nausea.  Long,  steady 


450  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

drinking  had  its  meet  effect.  He  was  hysterical  bedlamite 
— unmanned  man — raging  tiger  of  jealousy  ...  all  these 
things  in  one  .  .  .  dreadful  to  see  ...  to  hear.  .  .  . 

Sophy  stood  gathered  up  and  back  from  him.  She 
looked  dead — as  though  she  had  died  standing. 

With  Loring,  the  paroxysm  passed.  He  clung  to  the 
table  as  to  the  taffrail  of  a  reeling  ship.  The  whole  world 
seemed  waving  like  a  flag. 

Then  suddenly,  in  a  high,  clear,  toneless  voice,  Sophy 
said : 

"  I  do  not  now  offer  to  set  you  free.  ...  I  demand  to  be 
set  free  myself.  ..." 

She  went  swiftly  into  the  next  room.  He  heard  the 
key  turn  in  the  lock.  He  went  on  clinging  to  the  table 
which  seemed  to  swing  him  to  and  fro.  He  remembered 
hearing  that  rage  kills  sometimes.  He  thought  for  long 
moments  that  he  was  dying. 

For  some  days  after  he  was,  indeed,  seriously  ill. 


XXXV 

X  Sophy  had  realised  the  full  meaning  of  Loring 's 
confused,  frenzied  words,  she  had  felt  in  addition  to  her 
unspeakable  indignation  and  disgust,  a  strange  sensation 
AS  of  something  withering  and  falling  away  from  her. 
At  the  same  time,  in  the  depths  of  her,  there  was  a  quick 
clench  like  the  snap  of  a  vise.  And  she  knew  that  this 
gin  had  set  upon  the  past — upon  her  long  forbearance ;  that 
inevitably,  implacably  her  whole  being  had  revolted,  had 
set  itself  in  that  vise-like  lock  against  all  future  temporis 
ing.  It  was  over — done  with.  Her  life  with  Morris 
Loring  was  as  past  as  .though  they  had  lived  it  in  another 
age,  on  another  planet.  She  knew  that  she  would  be  in 
flexible.  Her  mood  might  soften,  pity  might  rise  mur 
muring.  She,  herself — her  very  self  of  self — would  never 
change — could  not  change  indeed.  It  was  her  inmost  being 
—her  realest  self — that  had  locked  thus  vise-like. 

Had  she  desired  to  with  all  her  might  she  could  not  have 
dragged  it  open.  One  may  not  love,  or  hate,  or  even  be 
wroth  at  will.  Here  her  will  was  powerless,  or  rather, 
this  was  her  will,  the  irresistible  law  of  her  nature  acting 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  451 

with  a  sort  of  divine  mechanism. — as  undefiable  as  the  law 
of  gravitation. 

Under  this  revelation  of  personality  acting  in  utter  dis 
regard  of  the  person — of  any  wish  or  will  of  the  ratiocinat 
ing  individual — she  rested  breathless.  Quite  independently 
of  her  reason  or  her  conscious  will,  this  inmost,  vital  nature 
had  solved  all,  come  to  an  immutable  resolution.  "I  will 
be  free.  I  am  free,"  it  had  announced.  "I  have  a  su 
preme  right  to  be  myself.  I  refuse  further  humiliation. 
I  repudiate  further  self-sacrifice." 

In  the  vigorous  reaction  of  her  whole  being,  she  won 
dered  at  her  past  meekness,  as  at  the  unworthy  subservi 
ence  of  another.  How  had  she  borne  it  all  so  long?  Why 
had  she  borne  it?  She  had  behaved  towards  Morris  just 
as  his  parents  and  relatives  had  behaved  from  his  child 
hood.  She  had  criticised  them  unsparingly  in  her  thought, 
and  all  the  time,  she,  too,  had  been  victimising  herself  that 
he  might  be  content,  untroubled,  indulged,  easy  in  his 
boundless  egotism. 

When  she  thought  of  her  long  patience  in  certain  mat 
ters,  she  shrivelled  with  shame.  Reaction  is  a  terrible  exag- 
gerater.  Under  its  influence  Sophy  saw  herself  as  a 
wretched  puppet  sewn  together  of  rags  of  sentiment.  If 
at  the  first  she  had  been  courageous,  if  she  had  said  to  him 
fearlessly:  "Either  things  must  be  different  or  we  must 
part, ' '  how  much  better  it  would  have  been  than  this  long- 
suffering  condonement  of  what  she  despised ! 

What  was  it  in  her  nature,  what  hidden  spring  that  had 
led  her  to  act  Griselda  to  two  such  men  as  Chesney  and 
Loring?  She  knew  herself  fundamentally  imperious,  im 
pulsive,  not  to  be  commandeered.  Why,  then,  had  she 
coerced  herself  to  sit  meekly  in  two  houses  of  bondage,  and 
for  long,  long  years? 

She  wondered  and  wondered  over  it.  Yet  the  answer 
was  very  simple.  She  was  tender-hearted,  and  she  was  one 
of  the  women  who  watch  long  by  the  sepulchre  of  Love, 
lest  perchance  he  may  be  not  dead  but  sleeping,  and  she 
not  there  to  roll  away  the  stone. 

She  gave  up  trying  to  solve  the  riddle  of  her  own  state 
at  last,  and  set  to  work  to  put  her  thoughts  in  order. 

First  of  all,  then,  she  must  be  free  again. 

To  be  free  she  must  be  true — quite  truthful.  This  made 
her  shrink.  But  the  pain  would  be  only  temporary.  His 


452  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

nature  could  not  long  sustain  any  emotion.  Besides,  such 
pain  as  he  would  feel  would  come  from  wounded  pride  and 
jealousy,  not  from  love. 

She  must  go  away.  She  would  write  Charlotte  a  letter 
asking  her  to  send  a  telegram  requiring  her  (Sophy)  to 
come  at  once  to  Sweet-Waters,  "on  a  matter  of  impor 
tance."  Harold  Grey,  Bobby,  and  Rosa  should  go  with 
her.  Then  her  mind  checked  again.  She  must  have  an 
interview  with  Belinda.  This  was  an  odious  necessity,  but 
unescapable.  Sophy  had  certain  things  to  say  to  Belinda. 
That  done,  she  would  leave  at  once  for  Virginia. 

Suddenly  a  new  thought  halted  her.  She  remembered 
Amaldi.  She  could  not  leave  like  this,  without  even  a 
good-by.  Should  she  write?  But  what  then  could  she 
write?  Perhaps  it  would  be  best  to  see  him  for  a  few 
moments.  Yes.  That  would  be  best.  And  yet  her  heart 
swelled  painfully  at  the  thought.  Amaldi  was  too  near  her 
with  his  idealising  friendship  for  her  to  treat  him  with 
absolute  convention.  And  she  could  not  speak  out  to  him. 
.  .  .  Or,  could  she?  No,  that  was  impossible.  Still,  it 
would  be  better  to  see  him.  She  owed  him  and  herself  that 
much. 

It  was  the  day  after  Loring's  outbreak.  His  fever  was 
high.  Sophy  had  sent  for  James  Griffeth,  the  family  phy 
sician  of  the  Lorings.  He  had  been  quite  frank.  "A  col 
lapse  from  alcohol  and  over-excitement, ' '  he  pronounced  it. 

She  shivered  uncontrollably.  Griffeth  begged  her  to  go 
and  rest.  She  said  that  she  would,  and  when  he  had  left 
went  thoughtfully  upstairs.  She  had  to  pass  Loring's  door 
on  the  way  to  her  own  room.  She  paused,  startled,  just 
before  reaching  it.  Belinda  was  standing  close  to  it,  the 
knob  in  her  hand.  The  door  was  open  on  a  crack.  Evi 
dently  some  one  also  had  hold  of  the  knob  on  the  other 
side.  The  door  swayed  to  and  fro  in  little  jerks.  Belinda 
was  speaking  in  a  hoarse,  passionate  whisper. 

"I  will  come  in.  ...  Let  me  in  this  minute — you  im 
pertinent  woman!"  she  was  saying. 

Sophy  came  forward.  She  could  now  see  the  white  cap 
and  flushed  face  of  the  trained  nurse.  She  heard  her  an 
swer  : 

"You  can't  come  in.  ...  It's  the  doctor's  orders.  .  .  . 
Nobody  but  Mrs.  Loring  can  come  in.  ...  Please  lei  go 
the  door.  . 


453 

"Belinda  ..."  said  Sophy,  now  close  to  her. 

She  wheeled  like  an  angry  cat. 

"Come  with  me,  please,  for  a  moment,"  said  Sophy. 

The  nurse  had  shut  the  door.  Belinda,  after  a  side- 
glance  at  it,  jerked  up  her  chin  and  followed  Sophy,  de 
fiance  in  every  vigorous  line  of  her. 

Sophy  led  the  way  into  her  writing-room  and  closed  the 
door.  She  stood,  and  Belinda  stood  facing  her.  The  girl 
was  scarlet  and  Sophy  very  pale. 

"Belinda  ..."  she  began. 

Words  leaped  like  flames  from  Belinda. 

"Oh,  I  know  you  saw  us!"  she  said.  "He  loves  me.  .  .  . 
What  are  you  going  to  do  about  it  ? " 

Sophy's  eyes  were  so  almost  smilingly  scornful  that  the 
girl's  bravado  failed  her.  She  began  changing  colour.  Her 
black  brows  scowled,  but  she  held  her  tongue. 

"I  wished  to  speak  to  you  about  .  .  .  your  mother," 
said  Sophy  quietly. 

Belinda  scowled  on  without  a  word. 

"I  think,  that  for  .  .  .  every  one  concerned  ...  it  will 
be  better  for  your  mother  to  know  nothing  of  all  this  .  .  . 
at  present." 

Belinda  kept  silence. 

"So  I  am  going  to  ask  \ou  to  go  back  to  Nahant  to 
morrow.  As  soon  as  Morris  is  better,  I  shall  have  to  go  to 
Virginia  on  an  important  matter.  You  cannot  remain  here 
alone.  If  you  go  quietly,  there  will  not  be  any  need  of 
my  speaking  to  your  mother.  Tell  her  that  your  visit  has 
been  shortened  by  my  leaving  for  Virginia." 

Now  Belinda  burst  forth  again: 

"Oh,  I  see!  .  .  .  Morry  may  be  dying  and  you  want  him 
all  to  yourself !  .  .  .  You  don 't  want  us  to  be  together  .  .  . 
even  if  he 's  dying.  .  .  .  You  ..." 

"Not  another  word  ..."  said  Sophy. 

Her  eyes  sobered  Belinda.  Grey  eyes  are  the  most  ter 
rible  of  all  when  utter  wrath  lights  them.  Belinda  glared 
into  those  burning  eyes  and  was  silent  again.  Sophy  went 
to  the  door  and  held  it  open. 

"That  is  all  I  wished  to  say.  Do  as  you  choose.  If  you 
do  not  go,  I  shall  send  for  your  mother." 

Belinda  gave  her  one  look  of  wild  hatred,  and  went  out. 
The  next  day  she  left  for  Nahant.  She  was  quite  desperate 
with  rage  and  grief,  but  she  dared  not  do  otherwise.  She 


454  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

dared  not  risk  being  separated  from  Morris  by  some  dis 
tance  far  greater  than  that  between  Nahant  and  Newport. 
If  her  mother  knew  what  had  happened,  she  might  whisk 
her  off  to  the  ends  of  the  earth.  Rage,  pain,  doubt,  fear, 
jealousy — all  these  swarmed  stinging  in  her  heart. 

The  next  day  Morris  was  much  better,  but  still  too  weak 
to  talk.  Sophy  went  in  and  out  of  the  room  at  stated  in 
tervals.  He  always  closed  his  eyes  and  feigned  sleep  when 
she  was  there.  He  could  not  face  her  or  himself.  He  tried 
not  to  think.  But  thoughts,  sharp  and  burning,  clotted  in 
his  mind  like  sparks  against  the  dark  side  of  a  chimney. 

On  the  fourth  day  came  the  telegram  from  Charlotte. 
Loring  was  now  sitting  up  in  his  bedroom.  Griffeth  said 
that  on  the  morrow  he  could  go  out.  Sophy  gave  orders  to 
have  some  necessary  things  packed.  She  had  decided  to 
leave  the  next  night  by  boat.  How  was  she  to  see  Amaldi  ? 
More  and  more  she  felt  that  she  must  say  farewell  to  him. 
People  had  been  coming  to  inquire  about  Loring.  She 
had  not  seen  any  callers  since  his  illness,  but  to-day  she 
decided  to  receive  them — and  in  the  morning  she  sent  a 
note  to  Amaldi.  She  told  him  that  she  had  to  leave  sud 
denly  for  an  indefinite  period.  "I  am  seeing  my  friends 
to-day."  she  wrote.  "If  you  will  come  about  half-past 
six  this  afternoon  we  can  have  a  quiet  talk." 

Then  she  took  Charlotte's  telegram  in  her  hand  and  went 
to  Loring 's  rooms. 


XXXVI 

SHE  knocked  at  his  dressing-room  door,  and  Miss  Webb, 
the  trained  nurse,  opened  it.  When  she  saw  Sophy,  she 
stepped  aside,  smiling,  for  her  to  enter. 

"My  patient's  doing  fine,  to-day,"  she  said.  "He's  eat 
half  a  chicken,  and  wants  more.  So  I'm  giving  him  the 
other  half." 

Sophy  showed  her  the  telegram,  and  asked  if  she  thought 
Mr.  Loring  were  well  enough  to  be  consulted  about  a  mat 
ter  of  importance.  Something  that  might  perhaps  agitate 
him.  Miss  Webb  asked  how  important  it  was.  Sophy  re 
plied  that  it  was  of  the  utmost  importance.  Miss  Webb 
considered  a  moment,  then  said : 

"Well,  if  he's  got  to  know  it,  morning's  the  best  time.    I 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  455 

guess  he's  well  enough  not  to  have  important  things  kept 
from  him." 

She  held  open  the  door  and  Sophy  went  through  the 
dressing-room  to  Loring 's  bedroom.  Miss  Webb  opened 
that  door  also  and  called  out  in  the  tone  of  artificial  good 
cheer  with  which  one  addresses  convalescents : 

' '  Here 's  Mrs.  Loring  come  to  see  you  eat  that  other  half, 
Mr.  Loring ! ' ' 

She  withdrew,  closing  the  door,  and  Sophy  went  over  to 
where  Loring  sat  in  an  armchair  with  a  tray  on  a  little 
table  before  him. 

He  had  swallowed  a  mouthful  of  broiled  fowl  with  un 
due  haste  when  he  heard  Miss  Webb's  announcement,  and 
now  as  Sophy  advanced  he  gulped  some  White  Rock,  partly 
to  clear  his  throat,  partly  to  cover  his  embarrassment. 

His  face,  pale  and  chastened  by  his  recent  attack,  went 
to  her  heart.  There  was  in  it  something  so  boyish,  so  irre 
sponsible.  That  mother-pity  welled  in  her.  What  she  had 
determined  on  was  going  to  hurt  more  even  than  she  had 
dreaded.  Yet  she  knew  that  she  would  go  through  with  it 
to  the  end,  no  matter  how  it  hurt.  The  pain  of  freeing 
herself  from  this  coil  would  be  as  nothing  to  the  pain  of 
remaining  stifled  and  loathing  in  it. 

She  drew  up  a  chair  and  sat  down  on  the  other  side  of 
the  little  table. 

"I'm  so  glad  to  see  you  so  much  better!"  she  said. 
"Please  don't  stop.  You  make  me  feel  that  I've  spoiled 
your  appetite." 

"No.  I've  finished,"  he  said,  pushing  the  plate  from 
him. 

He  touched  a  little  bell.    Miss  Webb  appeared. 

"Please  take  these  things  away,"  he  said. 

"Oh!  ..."  she  exclaimed,  disappointed,  as  she  lifted 
the  tray.  "You  said  you  could  eat  it  all,  and  now  you've 
left  a  whole  drumstick  ! ' ' 

Loring  reddened.  Fool  of  a  woman!  She  made  him 
ridiculous  with  her  nursery  expressions  and  concern  as  for 
a  sick  little  boy  who  wouldn't  eat  enough. 

' '  Take  it  away ! "  he  repeated  sharply.  "  I  '11  ring  again 
when  I  need  you." 

Miss  Webb  retreated,  her  eyes  fixed  regretfully  on  the 
neglected  "drumstick."  When  the  door  had  closed  again, 
he  lifted  his  moody  glance  with  an  effort  to  Sophy's  face. 


456  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

"It's  rather  good  of  you  to  come,  I  must  say,"  he  ob 
served.  "I  thought  I'd  be  taboo  for  a  long  while.  ..." 

Sophy  held  out  the  telegram. 

"It's  from  Charlotte,"  she  said.  "I  shall  have  to  go  to 
Virginia  to-morrow." 

He  looked  startled — glanced  through  the  telegram. 
"What's  up?  What  is  it?"  he  then  asked.  "It  strikes 
me  as  rather  high-handed  to  send  you  a  wire  like  this — 
without  a  word  of  explanation. ' ' 

' '  I  asked  her  to  send  it, ' '  said  Sophy. 

"You  asked  her  ..." 

"Yes — so  that  my  going  suddenly  wouldn't  be  com 
mented  on. ' ' 

lie  remained  dumfounded,  staring  at  her.  Sophy  re 
turned  his  gaze  steadily  and  very  gravely. 

"Morris,"  she  said,  "has  it  really  not  occurred  to  you 
that  I  wouldn't  remain  longer  in  this  house  than  I  could 
help?" 

His  stare  grew  quite  bewildered,  a  little  frightened. 

"In  .  .  .  this  house  .  .  .?"  he  stammered. 

"In  any  house  of  yours,  Morris." 

Now  his  lips  whitened.  Sophy  felt  sick.  But  she  had 
to  go  through  with  it — she  had  to.  ... 

"What  am  I  to  understand  by  that?"  he  asked  at  last, 
his  voice  husky. 

"Ah!  I'm  sorry  ..."  she  said,  her  own  voice  quivering. 
"But  .  .  .  it's  the  end.  .  .  .  It's  all  ...  over.  .  .  ." 

"What  is?"  he  asked ;  but  he  knew  already. 

"Our  life  together,"  she  answered. 

He  said  nothing,  just  sat  there  looking  down  at  the  bit 
of  yellow  paper  in  his  hands,  which  he  folded  and  refolded 
with  the  utmost  nicety.  Then  he  asked: 

"Do  you  suppose  that  I'll  take  this  seriously?" 

"I  hope  you  will." 

"Well,  I  don't,  and  I  won't,  by  God!"  he  retorted,  in  a 
sort  of  fierce  whisper,  and  the  violent  words  sounded 
strange  uttered  in  that  whispering  voice. 

Sophy  sat  still,  her  eyes  on  his. 

"Morris,"  she  said,  "do  you  think  that  I  will  ever  be 
your  wife  again,  after  what  you  said  to  me  the  other  day? 
After  what  you  accused  me  of?" 

The  blood  rushed  into  his  face,  up  to  the  very  roots  of 
his  hair. 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  457 

"I  was  mad  ...  I  didn't  know  what  I  was  say 
ing.  .  .  ." 

''You  knew  well  what  you  were  saying.  .  .  .  You  were 
only  mad  with  rage.  ...  I  can  never  forgive  those  words 
— never  really  forgive  them.  There's  some  part  of  me 
that  cannot  forgive  them." 

He  looked  at  her  doggedly.  His  face  was  a  mask  of  ob 
stinacy. 

"What  did  I  say?"  he  demanded.  ''I've  forgotten.  .  .  . 
I  was  beside  myself,  I  tell  you.  .  .  .  What  were  those  un 
forgivable  words?" 

Sophy  did  not  reply  at  once;  then  she  said  softly,  on  a 
deep  breath: 

"Oh  .  .  .  Morris!  .  .  ." 

He  flared  red  again,  set  his  jaw.  All  at  once  he  relaxed. 
There  came  a  kind  of  hopeful  bravado  into  his  voice. 

"It's  no  use,"  he  said.  "You  can't  get  me  to  believe 
any  such  thing  as  this.  But  you've  given  me  a  bad  jolt — 
if  that's  any  satisfaction.  I  suppose  what  you're  after  is 
to  discipline  me  a  bit.  That's  why  you've  rounded  on  me 
like  this.  .  .  .  Well,  I'll  admit  I've  deserved  it.  But  if 
you  only  knew  how  that  little  demon  worked  on  me  .  .  . 
damn  her!" 

He  brought  his  fist  down  on  the  arm  of  his  chair  several 
times. 

' '  Damn  her !  Damn  her ! "  he  kept  repeating  back  of  his 
locked  teeth. 

Now  Sophy  reddened. 

"Don't  ..."  she  exclaimed,  in  revolt.  "Don't  lay  the 
blame  on  a  woman  ...  a  girl  ..." 

"Why  shouldn't  I  lay  it  where  it  belongs?" 

"Then  lay  it  on  yourself,"  she  retorted,  with  passion. 
"Take  the  blame  like  a  man  ...  let  me  remember  you  as 
acting  like  a  man  .  .  .  not  like  a  spoiled  child.  ..." 

"A 'spoiled  child,' am  I?" 

"Yes,  Morris,  yes.  .  .  .  And  that  makes  me  patient  with 
you.  You  haven't  had  half  a  chance — no,  not  from  boy 
hood.  And  I  ...  I've  helped.  .  .  .  Oh,  do  you  think  .  .  . 
do  you  dream  .  .  .  that  if  it  hadn't  been  for  that,  I'd  have 
stayed  one  moment  under  your  roof  after  you  said  those 
vile,  unspeakable  things  to  me?  Don't  you  understand? 
...  It  is  over.  ...  I  am  going  back  to  my  own  home.  I 
will  never  live  with  you  again.  .  .  .  Never.  .  .  .  Never!" 


458  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

Still  he  did  not  believe  her — he  could  not.  He  said  sul 
lenly  at  last: 

"Well — go  to  your  precious  Virginia.  I'll  come  there 
later  when  you've  simmered  down  a  bit.  Then  we  can  talk 
of  things  rationally."  lie  stopped,  and  added  with  surly 
but  genuine  feeling:  "I  suppose  you  know  I'm  dam- 
iiably  sorry  and  all  that.  ...  I  apologise  .  .  .  humbly. 
I  ...  I  ...  acted  like  a  cad  to  you,  and  that's  a 
fact.  .  .  ." 

He  paused,  as  if  waiting  for  her  to  say  something.  She 
said  nothing.  He  blustered  on  : 

"...  But  when  you  mentioned  divorce  to  me  in  that 
cool  way.  .  .  .  By  God !  .  .  .  I  d id  go  crazy  .  .  .  I '11  swear 
I  did.  ."  .  .  And  that  little  fiend  had  ..." 

"Don't,  Morris  ..."  she  said  again. 

"But  I  tell  you  I  was  a  lunatic  for  the  moment  ..." 

"No,  Morris  .  .  .  it's  no  use  ...  it's  no  use  ..." 

"And  that  cursed  Italian  chap!  ..." 

Sophy's  eyes  grew  hard. 

"The  Marchese  Amaldi  is  an  old  and  dear  friend  of 
mine,"  she  said;  "please  don't  vilify  him  to  me." 

Loring  had  a  flash  of  rage ;  then  controlled  himself. 

"Well — I  guess  that  subject  had  better  be  dropped  be 
tween  us,"  he  admitted  shamefacedly. 

Sophy,  looking  at  him  quietly,  said : 

"Another  thing  that  I  have  to  tell  you  is  that  Amaldi 
is  coming  here  this  afternoon.  He  will  come  about  half- 
past  six.  I  wish  to  see  him  before  I  go  to  Virginia.  I 
asked  him  to  come." 

"Oh,  all  right  ...  all  right  ...  of  course,"  Loring 
replied,  in  a  rather  foolish  voice. 

"I  shall  take  Bobby  and  Rosa  with  me  to  Sweet- 
Waters,"  Sophy  continued.  "Mr.  Grey  will  follow  in  a 
day  or  two  after  he  has  seen  that  the  household  and  ac 
counts  are  all  in  order.  We  went  over  the  accounts  to 
gether  this  morning.  I  am  also  leaving  directions  with  him 
about  a  few  other  things.  He  will  hand  you  certain  keys. 
You  had  better  have  the  jewels  taken  to  the  bank  at 
once." 

Loring  looked  rather  staggered.     He  forced  a  smile. 

''I  say  .  .  ."he  protested.  "You  are  laying  it  on  a  bit 
thick,  you  know.  ..." 

He  had  again  that  boyish  look  which  so  hurt  her — there 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  459 

was  in  his  forced  smile  the  sort  of  timid,  ingratiating  air 
that  a  dog  has  when  it  knows  that  it  is  muddy  and  yet 
wishes  to  jump  up  on  the  most  cherished  chair. 

She  said  hurriedly: 

"I  shall  have  to  dress  now.  I've  told  Simms  that  I'm 
at  home  this  afternoon.  ..." 

She  went  out. 

Loring  stood  a  moment,  looking  at  the  telegram  which 
he  still  pinched  and  twisted  in  his  cold  fingers.  All  at 
once  he  sank  down,  laying  his  face  on  his  arm  and  his  arm 
on  the  little  table.  His  hands  were  tight-clenched. 

"Oh,  Lord,  what  a  fool  I've  been!  .  .  ."  he  groaned. 
"What  a  double-damned  fool!  ..." 

But  he  did  not  believe  for  one  instant  that  Sophy's  words 
were  final.  He  did  not  for  the  most  fleeting  atom  of  time 
give  credence  to  the  idea  that  she  meant  to  break  with  him 
entirely  and  for  good. 

Sophy  waited  for  Amaldi  in  the  "little  music-room." 
It  was  nearly  September.  In  the  last  two  days  the  morn 
ings  and  evenings  had  grown  chilly,  so  she  had  had  a  log 
fire  kindled  in  the  big  chimney-place.  The  shadows  leaped 
elfishly  upon  the  bare,  clear  walls,  as  though  shaken  with 
silent  laughter.  The  fire-gleams  flickered  over  the  glossy 
case  of  the  piano  until  it  glowed  like  a  black  opal.  White 
chrysanthemums  thrust  their  pretty  dishevelled  heads  into 
the  dance  of  gloom  and  shine.  The  room  was  fresh  with 
their  bitter-sweet,  autumn  scent. 

Sophy  loved  this  room.  She  looked  around  it  with  re 
gret,  as  she  stood  waiting  for  Amaldi.  Bit  by  bit  she  had 
thought  it  out.  She  had  spent  many  hours  alone  in  it. 
Here  Amaldi  had  made  that  wonderful  music  for  her.  She 
tried  to  recall  it  as  she  waited  for  him.  Phrases  came  .  .  . 
melted  away.  It  was  like  trying  to  hold  snow-crystals  in 
one 's  hands.  Then  his  words  came  back  to  her : 

"...  By  the  window  of  a  Castle  on  the  North  Sea,  sits 
a  beautiful,  ill  woman.  .  .  .  Love  brought  her  to  the  Castle 
.  .  .  then  Love  died  .  .  .  but  Love 's  ghost  wanders  through 
the  empty  halls.  ..." 

Had  Amaldi  really  guessed?  .  .  .  Did  he  know?  .  .  . 
Had  he  known  when  he  said  those  words — when  he  played 
that  music  to  her?  She  stood  gazing  into  the  spark- 
broidered  violet  of  the  flames  from  the  driftwood  fire. 


460  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

How  much  had  he  divined?  Somehow,  she  felt  that  he 
knew. 

And  she  did  not  mind  his  knowing.  It  would  make  him 
understand  all  that  was  to  follow.  .  .  .  How  strange  that, 
after  all  her  passionate,  wild  dreams,  friendship  and  not 
love  should  be  what  life  had  to  give  her ! 

As  Amaldi  came  towards  her  through  the  firelight,  she 
thought  that  his  face  looked  set  and  rather  strange.  She 
said  as  she  gave  him  her  hand : 

"I  sent  for  you  because  I  didn't  want  to  write  'good-by.' 
It  may  be  a  long  time  before  we  see  each  other  again." 

' '  May  I  know  how  long  ? ' '  he  asked,  in  a  low  voice. 

"I  don't  know  that  myself,"  she  answered.  "Perhaps 
a  year  .  .  .  perhaps  longer.  It  ...  it  depends.  But  .  .  . 
afterwards,  I  shall  be  in  England  with  Bobby." 

"Ah!"  said  Amaldi. 

They  stood  silent,  looking  into  the  fire.  Then  he  said 
abruptly : 

"May  I  write  to  you?" 

"Of  course,  Amaldi."  Her  lip  quivered  suddenly.  She 
added  in  a  rather  uncertain  voice : 

' '  I  haven 't  so  many  real  friends  that  I  could  be  indiffer 
ent  about  hearing  from  one  of  them." 

Amaldi  said  slowly  without  looking  at  her: 

"I  shall  try  to  be  your  friend.  ...  I  shall  try  not  to 
fail  you." 

"As  if  you  could  fail  any  one!" 

Now  he  looked  at  her  with  a  very  curious  expression — 
as  he  had  looked  at  her  the  evening  he  played  for  her. 
He  hesitated  a  moment;  then  the  words  rushed: 

"Forgive  me  ...  but  it's  not  an  easy  thing  to  be  the 
friend  of  the  woman  one  has  loved.  .  .  .  Are  you  very 
angry  with  me?" 

It  came  like  a  real  shock  to  Sophy.  Her  absorption  in 
her  own  troubles  had  blinded  her  to  this  possibility.  She 
could  not  think  of  the  right  word  to  say — murmured  nerv 
ously:  "No  .  .  .  no.  I'm  not  angry  .  .  .  only  ..." 

"  'Only'?"  he  took  it  up. 

With  tears  in  her  eyes,  she  said : 

"Oh,  Amaldi  .  .  .  your  friendship  meant  so  much  to 
me!  .  .  .  It  meant  so  much !  ..." 

This  cut  him  cruelly.     He  exclaimed  with  passion: 

"How  can  you  speak  as  if  it  were  past  .  .  .  over?  .  .  . 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  461 

I'm  honest  with  you.  I  confess  that  it  is  a  struggle  for 
me  ...  to  feel  ...  to  act  only  as  your  friend.  But  I  tell 
you  that  I  shall  try  .  .  .  and  you  turn  from  me  ..." 

"No,  Amaldi.  .  .  .  No.  .  .  .  That  isn't  just  ...  it  isn't 
fair  .  .  ." 

"You  said  'meant'  .  .  .  that  my  friendship  meant  much 
to  you  ...  as  if  it  were  over.  ..." 

"No,  no.     But  I  ..." 

She  broke  off,  and  they  stood  in  unhappy  silence.  Then 
all  at  once  she  turned  to  him. 

"Listen,  Amaldi,"  she  said  impetuously.  "I  can't  tell 
you  .  .  .  but  if  you  knew  ..." 

"I  do  know,"  he  said. 

They  stood  silent  again.  At  last  she  said,  under  her 
breath : 

' '  Then  ...  if  you  know  .  .  .  you  must  feel  that  every 
thing  is  over  for  me  .  .  .  but  friendship.  .  .  .  You  must 
feel  that.  .  .  .  The  mere  idea  of  ...  'love'  ..." 

She  broke  off  again,  shivering. 

Amaldi  said  in  a  constrained  voice: 

"I  was  not  speaking  of  you,  but  of  myself.  I  don't 
think  that  you  can  imagine  how  intensely  I  want  to  be  a 
real  friend  to  you.  As  I  said,  not  to  fail  you  ..." 

"And  you  think,"  she  returned,  her  lips  again  quiver 
ing,  "that  I  would  take  your  friendship  at  such  cost  to 
you  1  You  think  I  'm  as  selfish  ...  as  unfeeling  as  that  ? ' ' 

Amaldi  looked  at  her  almost  indignantly.  "You  know  I 
think  nothing  but  the  highest  of  you,"  he  said.  Then  his 
voice  shook,  the  look  in  his  eyes  changed.  "Forgive 
me  .  .  ."he  said.  "It's  I  who  am  selfish." 

But  Sophy  couldn't  speak.  She  put  up  one  hand  to 
shield  her  face  from  him.  and  he  saw  that  her  wedding 
ring  was  gone.  He  flushed,  struggled  with  himself;  then, 
going  close  to  her,  he  said  in  a  vehement  whisper : 

"I  will  be  what  you  want  .  .  .  only  what  you  want. 
And  if  the  time  comes  when  .  .  .  when  I  find  I  can't  hold 
out  ...  I  will  tell  you,  and  go  away." 

Still  she  could  not  speak.  She  held  out  her  other  hand 
to  him  in  silence.  The  tears  were  running  over  down  her 
face. 

He  took  her  hand,  hesitated  a  moment ;  then  lifted  it  to 
his  lips. 

"I  swear  that  I  will  be  your  true  friend,"  he  said. 


462  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

She  put  up  the  hand  that  he  had  kissed  with  the  other, 
over  her  face. 

"Go  now  ..."  she  managed  to  whisper. 

"But  you  believe  me?  You  will  still  call  me  your 
friend?" 

"Yes  .  .  .  my  dear,  dear  friend. " 

He  went  quickly  from  the  room.  He  vowed  to  himself 
that  he  would  be  her  true  friend  at  no  matter  what  cost 
to  his  own  feelings.  But  he  had  never  loved  her  as  he 
loved  her  in  that  hour.  And  underneath  it  all  there  was 
hope,  hope,  hope —  He  could  wait.  Yes,  he  could  wait 
long  years  more,  if  need  be. 


XXX  VI I 

SOPHY  stood  by  the  open  window  of  her  old  nursery  bed 
room  at  Sweet-Waters.  It  was  only  ten  o'clock,  but  she  had 
come  up  early  this  first  evening.  She  wanted  to  be  alone. 
Now  that  she  had  told  Charlotte  and  the  Judge  how  things 
were  with  her,  it  was  a  strain  to  live  up  to  their  pained 
conception  of  the  situation.  She  felt  it  a  reproach  that  in 
spite  of  all,  such  an  irrepressible  fount  of  glee  bubbled 
within  her.  It  was  not  happiness  certainly,  yet  too  much 
akin  to  it  not  to  be  out  of  keeping  with  her  present  out 
ward  state.  Her  heart  would  sing  in  spite  of  her.  It  was 
like  a  naughty,  overexuberant  child  shouting  week-a-day 
songs  at  a  funeral.  It  sang :  "I  am  free  !  I  am  free !  I 
am  free!"  The  sky  was  spread  with  clouds.  Behind  these 
clouds  was  a  hidden  moon.  Its  rays  filtered  through,  and 
this  soft,  grey  moonlight  was  eerily  lovely — elfin-like. 

From  this  pale  fleece  of  cloud  fell  a  light  shower,  trill 
ing  on  the  roof  of  the  east  wing  beneath  her  window.  And 
from  field  and  wood  and  hill  went  up  another  trilling,  ex 
quisitely  musical  and  plaintive — the  clear,  sweet,  myriad 
flutes  of  autumn  crickets.  So  that  heaven  and  earth 
seemed  doubly  woven  together  by  this  interlacing  of  lovely 
sound,  the  one  descending,  the  other  ascending. 

The  rain  came  softly  in  her  face.  She  held  up  her  face 
to  it,  loving  the  delicate,  cool  touch  upon  her  lips  and 
eyelids. 

As  usual,  Sweet-AVaters  had  given  her  to  herself  again. 


463 

She  was  just  Sophy  Taliaferro  once  more.  Sophy  Chesney 
and  Sophy  Loring  were  poor,  wind-driven  waifs,  some 
where  far  away  in  the  outer  deserts  of  her  mind.  To 
morrow  Charlotte  and  Joe  wished  "to  talk  very  seriously 
with  her."  This  had  been  Charlotte's  parting  word  that 
night.  Well — to-morrow  was  twelve  hours  away.  Now  she 
would  just  be  Sophy  Taliaferro. 

But  she  waked  up  next  morning  to  find  herself  unmis 
takably  Sophy  Loring  once  more. 

Her  heart  was  very  heavy.  Life  had  no  taste.  The  fu 
ture  rose  before  her  like  a  cyclopean  wall,  which  could  not 
be  scaled  or  dug  under  and  in  which  there  was  no  door. 

Her  heart  winced  and  shrank  from  the  long,  painful 
scenes  with  Morris  that  she  apprehended.  She  was  quite 
sure  that  he  had  no  real  love  left  for  her,  yet  she  knew  his 
nature.  She  feared  that  the  very  fact  of  finding  himself 
about  to  lose  her  would  kindle  in  him  a  fictitious  ardour. 
It  might  well  be  that,  as  the  unattainable,  she  would  once 
more  seem  his  heart's  desire. 

After  breakfast  she  went  with  Joe  and  Charlotte  to  Joe 's 
study.  Bobby  and  Winks  were  having  a  gorgeous  time 
playing  "Indians"  all  over  the  place.  As  she  sat  in  the 
open  window,  Sophy  could  hear  the  voices  of  the  two 
"Braves,"  rising  in  shrill,  ecstatic  warwhoops  from  the 
straw-stack  near  the  stables.  She  smiled.  At  least  Bobby 
was  thoroughly  happy  in  the  new  state  of  things. 

She  was  seated  on  the  low  window-ledge,  Charlotte  op 
posite  her.  The  Judge  had  established  himself  in  the  re 
volving  chair  before  his  desk.  He  felt  the  need  of  some 
strong,  dignified  background  during  the  coming  interview. 
His  sombre,  official-looking  desk,  with  its  piles  of  legal 
documents  and  tomes,  afforded  him  this  spiritual  sustain- 
ment.  He  was  very  nervous.  Sophy  was  so  "hard  to 
tackle"  sometimes.  "Rash"  was  the  disconcerting  adjec 
tive  that  kept  rising  in  his  mind.  Sophy  was  so  "almighty 
rash"!  He  thanked  his  stars  that  rashness  was  not  Char 
lotte's  characteristic.  "Firmness"  described  his  help 
meet.  He  felt  that  this  firmness  would  indeed  make  her  a 
true  helpmeet  in  the  present  case.  There  was  certainly  no 
help  coming  from  Sophy  herself.  She  was  (they  both 
thought)  most  inconsiderately  waiting  for  them  to  "be 
gin." 


464  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

The  day  was  exquisitely  temperate  and  golden  after  last 
night 's  showers.  She  had  put  on  one  of  her  old  duck  skirts 
and  thin  white  blouses.  Her  hair  was  "clubbed"  and 
fastened  with  a  black  bow  as  of  old.  She  was,  outwardly 
at  least,  even  defiantly  Sophy  Taliaferro.  Charlotte  felt 
that  it  was  almost  improper  of  Sophy  to  look  so  like  her 
former  self,  so  "unmarried,"  as  it  were,  "after  all  she  had 
been  through."  But  Sophy  was  Sophy.  The  most  that 
they  could  hope  was  by  great  "tactfulness"  to  persuade 
her  to  be  "reasonable"  on  certain  points. 

The  Judge  cleared  his  throat.  Sophy  had  her  hands 
clasped  about  her  knee,  one  slim,  brown-shod  foot  was 
dangling.  It  was  a  disconcertingly  "unmatronly"  atti 
tude.  The  Judge  glanced  nervously  at  Charlotte.  Her 
eyebrows  said:  "Go  on."  He  cleared  his  throat  a  second 
time : 

"  A-rrrum!" 

Sophy  turned  her  head  and  looked  inquiringly  at  him. 

"Yes?"  she  said. 

The  Judge  flushed  as  his  eyes  met  hers.  Good  man  .  .  . 
it  embarrassed  him  to  meet  the  eyes  of  one  of  his  own 
womenkind  whose  wedded  husband  had  actually  embraced 
an  "abandoned  minx"  under  their  own  roof.  Charlotte 
had  termed  Belinda  Horton  an  "abandoned  minx."  The 
Judge  considered  the  term  apposite.  So  Belinda  figured 
thus  in  their  thoughts  from  that  moment.  But  all  this 
came  too  perilously  near  to  mentioning  the  seventh  com 
mandment  in  "the  presence  of  a  lady"  not  to  cause  the 
dear,  old-fashioned  man  acute  discomfort. 

"Well,  Joe?"  said  Sophy  again,  as  he  hesitated. 

"It's  ...  it's  all  ...  mighty  involved,  Sophy,"  he 
stammered,  looking  down  at  the  snowstorm  paper-weight 
which  he  had  picked  up  and  was  turning  nervously  round 
and  round. 

"Yes,  Joe.  I  know  that,"  she  said  gravely.  "That's 
what  I  want  you  to  help  me  about." 

"Divorce  is  a  mighty  serious — er — ugly  thing.  ..." 

"But  not  as  ugly  as  marriage  that  is  no  marriage,  Joe." 

The  Judge  rumpled  his  smoky  wreath  the  wrong  way. 

"Yes  ...  I  know  how  you  must  feel  .  .  ."he  admitted 
unhappily. 

"No,  Joe.  Nobody  but  a  woman  can  know  how  she 
feels,"  put  in  Charlotte,  reddening  in  her  turn. 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  465 

"Well  ...  I  reckon  I  can  give  a  mighty  shrewd  guess 
at  it,'"'  said  the  Judge. 

"It's  very  simple,"  Sophy  said.  "I  want  to  be  free. 
I  don 't  think  I  've  any  false  vanity  about  it.  I  did  have  at 
first.  But  then,  you  see,  7  was  mistaken,  as  well  as 
Morris.  I  don't  feel  hard  to  Morris.  It  really  isn't  all  his 
fault.  ..." 

"Oh!"  said  Charlotte.     She  was  quite  crimson  now. 

"No,  Chartie,  it  is  not,"  Sophy  persisted.  "But  I  can't 
enter  into  all  that  ..." 

"I  should  think  not!" 

"I  only  want  to  get  free  and  to  set  him  free,  as  soon  as 
possible." 

"He  oughtn't  to  be  free — the  idea!"  cried  Charlotte 
indignantly. 

Sophy  shook  her  head  at  her,  smiling. 

"Oh,  Chartie,"  she  said,  "we  aren't  in  the  'dark  back 
ward'  of  the  Victorian  era!  Why  shouldn't  he  be  free  to 
live  his  life  as  he  wants  to,  as  well  as  I?" 

"That's  downright  irreligious,  Sophy!"  cried  her  sister 
writh  passion. 

' '  I  don 't  think  so, ' '  said  Sophy  mildly. 

The  Judge  intervened. 

"Come,"  he  said  nervously,  "don't  let's  squabble  over 
side-issues." 

"  'Side-issues'!    Joe!"  exclaimed  his  wife. 

"Oh,  well  .  .  .  don't  let's  squabble,  at  any  rate,"  he 
said  huntedly.  "The  main  point,  what  we're  here  to  dis 
cuss,  is  Sophy's  wish  to  be  divorced." 

"And  I  think  she's  perfectly  justified!"  snapped  Char 
lotte. 

The  Judge  resumed,  addressing  Sophy: 

"Now,  the  question  is,  what  will  be  ...  er  ...  Mr. 
Loring's  attitude  in  the  matter?" 

' '  I  think  he  '11  oppose  it  ...  at  first, ' '  said  Sophy. 

The  Judge  looked  curious. 

"Why  only  'at  first'?"  he  asked. 

Sophy  said  quietly  and  rather  sadly: 

"Because  it  isn't  in  his  nature  to  keep  up  anything  for 
long." 

"Mh!"  said  the  Judge. 

lie  took  up  the  paper-weight  which  he  had  laid  aside 
and  turned  it  so  vigorously  that  the  little  cottage  and  fig- 


466  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

ures  within  the  glass-ball  were  almost  blotted  from  sight 
by  the  mimic  snowstorm. 

"Divorce  is  a  slow  affair  in  Virginia,"  he  said  at  last. 

"Then  I'd  rather  get  mine  in  the  West,"  said  Sopliy. 

Charlotte  looked  at  her  in  horror. 

"Oh,  Sophy!"  she  cried.  "No!  .  .  .  you  wouldn't! 
.  .  .  It's  .  .  .  it's  so  vulgar!" 

"Life  is  vulgar,"  said  Sophy. 

"Oh,  my  dear!" 

"I  mean  it  in  the  big  sense.  Vulgar  means  common  to 
all — to  all  people.  So  I  say  life  is  vulgar  .  .  .  and  the 
longing  for  freedom  is  vulgar.  No  one  has  ever  longed 
for  freedom  as  slaves  have,  I  suppose.  Well,  I  am  a  slave 
.  .  .  and  I  long  for  freedom.  I  long  for  it  so  that  I  want 
it  quickly.  I  want  it  as  one  wants  water  when  one's  fam 
ishing,  and  bread  when  one's  starving.  I'm  not  so  aristo 
cratic  in  my  hunger  and  thirst  that  I  prefer  to  wait 
through  dignified  years  for  a  bit  of  stale  bread.  I  wrant 
my  loaf  now  .  .  .  and  I  want  the  whole  loaf  .  .  .  not 
half  .  .  ." 

Sophy  was  indeed  speaking  with  "vulgar"  intensity. 
She  "let  herself  go"  because  she  wanted  Joe  and  Char 
lotte  to  understand  once  for  all  that  there  was  no  use  in 
trying  to  make  her  behave  "reasonably." 

Charlotte's  small  mouth  was  tight  shut.  The  Judge 
looked  rather  pale.  Just  as  he  had  thought,  Sophy  was 
evincing  rashness  in  its  most  aggravated  form. 


XXXVIII 

SOPHY  slipped  down  from  her  perch  on  the  window-sill, 
and  came  arid  stood  between  them. 

"Oh,  Chartie  .  .  .  Joe  ..."  she  said,  turning  from  one 
to  the  other,  "why  do  you  look  so?  Surely  you  don't  want 
me  to  waste  long  years  of  my  life,  clanking  this  chain 
after  me,  wherever  I  go?  ...  Not  free  .  .  .  not  a  wife 
.  .  .  not  anything  really — and  Morris  in  the  same  plight! 
.  .  .  And  Belinda.  .  .  .  Think  of  that  wild,  self-willed 
girl  .  .  ." 

"You're  crazy,  Sophy!  .  .  .  You  really  talk  as  if  you 
were  crazy!  ..."  broke  in  Charlotte,  suffocated.  "How 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  467 

can  you  mention  that  .  .  .  that  ..."  Propriety  pre 
vented  Charlotte  from  expressing  herself  fully.  "...  That 
creature f"  she  ended,  breathing  very  short.  "How  can 
you  care  what  becomes  of  her?" 

Sophy  looked  tired  all  at  once.  She  dropped  into  a 
chair  near  the  desk. 

"I  suppose  you'll  think  I'm  crazier  than  ever,"  she  said. 
"But  while  I  don't  like  Belinda,  I  don't  think  she's  quite 
a  'creature'  .  .  .  not  yet,  anyway.  And  her  one  chance  is 
to  ...  Well  .  .  .  my  setting  Morris  free  quickly  ...  as 
soon  as  possible,  will  give  her  her  chance." 

Charlotte  stared  at  her,  her  little  mouth  unlocked  by 
sheer  amazement. 

Then  she  said  in  a  faint  voice : 

"To  think  of  my  living  to  hear  you  speak  like  that!" 

"I  can't  help  it,  Chartie.  That's  the  way  I  feel.  I 
must  be  perfectly  honest  with  you  and  Joe,  or  what's  the 
use  of  my  talking  with  you  at  all?  Do  you  think  I  like 
doing  it?"  she  asked,  her  own  voice  suddenly  trembling. 
' '  Never,  never  have  I  hated  anything  so  much ! ' '  she  ended 
vehemently. 

She  got  up,  went  over  to  the  window  again,  and  stood 
leaning  against  it,  her  back  to  them. 

The  Judge  looked  miserably  at  Charlotte,  and  her  eye 
brows  said:  "Wait  a  while.  She'll  calm  down." 

So  all  three  waited  in  an  uncomfortable  silence. 

Presently  Sophy  turned  round.  There  were  tears  in  her 
eyes,  but  she  was  smiling.  "My  poor  dear  dears!"  she 
said,  in  such  an  affectionate,  sorry  voice  that  their  hearts 
jumped  towards  her.  "It  was  horrid  of  me  to  burst  out  at 
you  like  that  ..." 

Charlotte  went  up  and  put  a  brisk,  muscular  little  arm 
hard  about  her  sister 's  shoulders. 

"Come,  now,  darling  .  .  .  let's  talk  sense,"  said  she. 

"I've  got  a  friend  in  the  West  ..."  the  Judge  began, 
fidgeting  a  little. 

Charlotte  could  not  help  it. 

"Oh,  Joe!  Not  .  .  .  Sioux  Falls!"  she  pleaded,  as  who 
should  say:  "At  least  let  the  headsman's  axe  be  clean." 

Sophy  interrupted: 

"If  the  gods  give  me  freedom,  Chartie,  why  should  I 
care  whether  the  oracle  speaks  from  Sioux  Falls  or 
Athens?" 


468 

"Well,  7  care!"  said  Charlotte. 

"It's  not  Sioux  Falls,"  said  the  Judge. 

"Go  on,  Joe,"  said  Sophy. 

"I'll  write  to  him.  He's  a  very  able  lawyer — upon  .  .  . 
er  .  .  .  these  questions.  ..." 

"Thank  you,  dear  Joe,"  said  Sophy  softly. 

The  Judge  replied  mechanically:  "Not  at  all."  He 
was  fingering  the  paper-weight  again.  He  looked  uncom 
fortable  .  .  .  with  a  new  sort  of  discomfort.  He  cleared 
his  throat.  Regarding  Sophy  with  doubt  in  his  worried 
eyes,  he  said : 

"Er  .  .  .  Sophy  ...  er  ...  in  case  .  .  .  what  about 
the  question  of  alimony?" 

Like  lightning,  she  replied  as  he  had  feared  she  would : 

"Not  a  penny  .  .  .  not  a  cent  of  alimony,  Joe!" 

"But  in  such  a  case,  the  Court  ..." 

"I  wouldn't  accept  it." 

"Perhaps,  dear  ..."  began  Charlotte,  in  a  "sense-of- 
duty"  tone.  Though  she  considered  her  sister  unwise,  yet 
she  sympathised  ardently  with  this  unwisdom. 

' '  No — never ! ' '  Sophy  said  again. 

The  Judge  looked  more  and  more  uncomfortable.  The 
snowstorm  in  the  paper-weight  became  a  blizzard.  At  last 
he  jumped  into  the  midst  of  things,  with  all  the  jerky  sud 
denness  of  a  man  who  has  at  last  determined  to  break 
through  the  ice-skim  on  his  morning  tub. 

"Sophy,"  he  blurted,  "I  must  tell  you — there  was  a  set 
tlement  ...  at  the  time  of  your  marriage  with  Mr.  Lor- 
ing  .  .  ." 

(He  had  "Mistered"  Loring  punctiliously  ever  since 
Sophy's  disclosure.) 

"A  settlement?"  said  Sophy  blankly. 

"Just  so.  Yes.  A-rrrm!  ...  I  ...  er  ...  am  re 
sponsible  for  the  ...  er  ...  arrangement  ...  a  mar 
riage  settlement,  you  know.  ...  It  gives  you  ten  thou 
sand  a  year,  in  your  own  right." 

' '  Gives  me  .  .  .  ?  Ten  thousand  .  .  .  ?  My  own  right  ? ' ' 
stammered  Sophy.  "Oh,  you  must  be  mistaken,  Joe!"  she 
added,  colouring  deeply. 

Then  the  Judge  explained  unhappily.  He  had  stood 
in  loco  parentis.  .  .  .  The  future  was  always  uncertain. 
...  He  should  have  felt  himself  culpable  towards  her, 
et  cetera,  et  cetera.  And  fearing  that  she  might  raise  ob- 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  469 

jections  against  her  own  interests,  he  had  accepted  a  power- 
of-attorney  to  administer  the  property  for  her.  This  was 
the  reason  of  her  ignorance  on  the  subject. 

Sophy  stood  transfixed.  Then  she  took  it  in.  She  went 
up  to  him,  put  her  arm  about  his  neck,  and  kissed  his 
harassed  face.  "You're  a  dear,  kind,  real  brother,"  she 
murmured;  "but  you're  a  lawyer,  too — so  you  can  just 
arrange  to  unsettle  that  settlement." 

"Now,  Sophy  .  .  .  now,  Sophy  .  .  ."  he  pleaded. 
1 '  There 's  nothing  undignified  ...  or  ...  or  ..." 

"I  couldn't,  Joe!     It's  impossible  .  .  .  utterly  ..." 

"Think  of  Bobby.  ..." 

She  coloured  deeper  than  ever. 

"I  should  never  maintain  my  son  on  Morris's  money," 
she  said  proudly. 

"But,  Sophy!  .  .  .  Oh,  dog  my  buttons!  ..."  groaned 
the  harried  man.  "You've  got  to  live  .  .  ." 

"You  forget  what  you  saved  for  me,  Joe  .  .  .  and  my 
thousand  a  year. ' ' 

' '  Saved !  About  twenty  thousand.  How  will  you  eat  and 
clothe  yourself  and  the  boy  and  educate  him  on  the  income 
of  such  a  sum  ?  I  'm  not  talking  high  sentiment ;  I  'm  talk 
ing  hard  facts,"  wound  up  the  Judge,  much  excited. 

Charlotte  sat  motionless,  looking  at  them.  Sophy's  eyes 
had  gone  black. 

"I'll  .  .  .  I'll  .  .  .  sing  for  my  living  and  Bobby's 
first,"  she  said. 

"Pooh!"  said  the  Judge. 

He  was  quite  reckless.  He,  like  Charlotte,  sympathised 
too  much  in  one  way  with  this  quixotic  attitude  of  hers 
not  to  feel  called  on  to  remonstrate  vigorously  in  another. 
He  kept  telling  himself  that  Sophy  was  being  hifalutin  in 
addition  to  being  rash.  He  must  save  her  from  hifaluti- 
ness  at  least. 

"Pooh!"  he  said  again  hardily.  "As  Chartie  said,  let's 
talk  sense.  "What  about  Bobby's  education?  .  .  .  Eton — 
Oxford  .  .  .  this  tutor  who's  coming  in  a  day  or  two?  Do 
you  think  you're  going  to  get  divorced  and  established  at 
the  Metropolitan  in  time  to  pay  for  all  that?" 

"Joe!"  cried  Charlotte. 

"Never  mind  ...  I  like  him  to  speak  out,"  said  Sophy 
bravely,  a  scarlet  spot  on  either  cheek.  Then  an  inspira 
tion  came  to  her. 


470  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

"Gerald  will  educate  Bobby  for  me,"  she  said.  "I  know 
he  will !  I  shall  write  to  Gerald  and  tell  him  the  whole 
truth.  He  has  always  been  like  a  true  brother  to  me." 

The  Judge  was  thinking  hard  and  quickly. 

"Yes — and  suppose  he  dies  suddenly — what  then?" 

"How  'what  then'?"  asked  Sophy,  bewildered. 

"Why,  what  about  the  property?  Is  it  all  entailed — or 
only  partly?" 

"I  ...  I  ...  don't  know,"  faltered  Sophy. 

"Very  well.  If  Lord  Wychcote  dies  suddenly,  Bobby 
will  inherit  ...  as  I  understand  it.  But  if  the  property 
is  all  entailed,  your  brother-in-law  can't  leave  you  any 
thing.  The  property  would  be  in  trust  for  Bobby  until  he 
came  of  age  legally.  It  would  depend  entirely  on  the 
Court  what  you  had  as  his  mother.  Suppose  you  found 
yourself  more  or  less  at  the  mercy  of  the  old  lady — Bobby 
getting  his  education  in  England — as  you've  promised  he 
should,  mind  you — and  you  without  the  means  to  live  near 
him—  Eh?  What  then?" 

"I  ...  I  will  write  to  Mr.  Surtees, "  said  Sophy,  very 
white. 

"Who's  he?" 

"The  family  solicitor." 

"AVell,  do  ...  I  advise  you  to,  by  all  means." 

Here  Charlotte  stepped  forward.  She  put  her  arm 
about  her  white,  suddenly  subdued  sister,  and  looked 
sternly  at  her  husband. 

"Joe  ...  I'm  surprised  at  you!"  she  said.  "A  Vir 
ginia  gentleman  being  so  cruel  to  a  woman ! ' ' 

"Pooh !"  said  the  Judge  a  third  time.  He  was  in  a  state 
of  flagrant  rebellion.  "Stuff!  ...  I'm  being  a  Virginia 
lawyer  and  a  mighty  good  friend.  If  I  wasn't  darned  fond 
of  Sophy,  I  wouldn't  go  on  like  this,  you  may  be  sure. 
Whew!" 

He  wiped  his  brow  and  looked  at  his  handkerchief  as 
though  expecting  to  see  it  incarnadined.  It  really  was  like 
sweating  blood  to  try  to  talk  reason  into  one  so  hopelessly 
unpractical  and  hifalutin  as  Sophy. 

"I'll  look  forward  to  reading  Mr.  Surtees 's  letter  with 
great  interest,"  he  remarked  grimly. 

Sophy  had  a  flash  of  spirit. 

"No  matter  what  he  says,  I  shan't  accept  alimony!"  sbe 
retorted. 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  471 

"And  the  .  .  ." 

"Or  that  settlement  either." 

The  Judge  glowered  at  her  for  a  second.  Then  he 
reached  out,  drew  her  to  him,  and  kissed  her. 

"Well  .  .  .  God  bless  you  for  a  sweet  fool!"  was  his 
strange  remark. 

Sophy  laughed  faintly,  and  the  sisters  went  out  with 
their  arms  about  each  other.  The  Judge  sank  exhausted 
into  his  chair. 

"...  Dog  my  buttons!  .  .  ."he  murmured,  as  the  two 
disappeared.  ' '  The  Lord  probably  thought  Adam  out  more 
or  less  carefully,  but  I  reckon  He  made  Eve  on 
impulse.  ..." 


XXXIX 

BUT  Sophy  did  not  write  to  Mr.  Surtees,  as  she  had  said  so 
boldly  that  she  would  do.  All  that  was  finest  in  her  re 
belled  at  the  idea  when  she  came  to  think  it  over  clearly. 
It  was  quite  impossible  for  her  to  write  thus  cold-bloodedly 
and  ask  the  old  solicitor  what  would  be  her  prospects  as 
Bobby's  mother,  in  the  event  of  the  sudden  death  of  the 
man  who  had  really  been  to  her  like  the  kindest,  most  in 
dulgent  of  brothers. 

Instead,  she  wrote  to  Gerald  himself,  telling  him  of  her 
proposed  divorce  and  her  determination  not  to  accept 
alimony  or  avail  herself  of  the  marriage  settlement  ar 
ranged  by  her  sister's  husband  without  her  knowledge. 
She  asked  him  not  to  tell  Lady  Wychcote  of  this  matter 
until  it  should  be  accomplished.  She  said  simply:  "So 
you  see,  dear  Gerald,  as  things  will  be,  I  shall  not  have  the 
means  to  educate  Bobby  as  his  father  wished.  Will  you 
do  it  for  Cecil 's  son,  dear  Gerald  ?  Somehow,  I  don 't  mind 
asking  you  this  at  all.  I  feel,  indeed,  that  you  would  be 
hurt  if  I  did  not  ask  it." 

Gerald 's  answer  came  with  the  name  of  a  steamer  written 
on  the  envelope  to  insure  promptness.  Sophy  cried  when 
she  read  that  letter. 

"Dear  Sophy,"  he  wrote,  "I  am  more  touched  than  I 
can  express  by  your  confidence  in  me.  I  beg  you  not  to 
give  another  thought  to  the  matter.  All  shall  be  just  as 
before  your  present  marriage.  I  only  hope  that  you  will 


472  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

resume  Cecil's  name  again  when  you  are  at  liberty  to  do 
so.  As  Bobby's  mother,  it  seems  to  me  that  it  would  be 
more  fitting.  I  am  very  happy  to  think  of  your  being  in 
England  again.  Don't  make  it  too  long,  and  don't  think, 
'There's  that  poor,  hipped  old  rotter  Gerald,  mooning 
about  himself — but  sometimes  I  have  a  beastly  feeling 
that  I  mayn't  see  you  again.  And  as  you  know,  I'm  rather 
fond  of  you,  old  girl.  Love  to  the  little  chap.  G. ' ' 

One  thing  in  his  letter,  however,  seemed  odd  to  them  all. 
It  was  his  suggestion  that  she  should  take  Chesney's  name 
again,  after  her  divorce.  About  this,  on  the  Judge's  ad 
vice,  she  did  write  to  Mr.  Surtees.  She  herself,  as  Bob 
by's  mother,  would  have  much  preferred  to  be  called 
Mrs.  Chesney.  She  did  not  wish  to  go  on  calling  herself 
"Mrs.  Morris  Loring. "  She  felt  very  sure  that  within  a 
short  time  after  the  divorce  there  would  be  another  "Mrs. 
Morris  Loring."  She  awaited  Mr.  Surtees 's  reply  with 
some  anxiety.  It  was  quite  satisfactory.  He  expressed 
himself  as  of  the  opinion  that  it  would  be  "quite  natural, 
fitting,  and  possible  for  Mrs.  Loring  to  resume  the  name  of 
her  first  husband."  lie  quoted  the  case  of  Cowley  v.  Cow- 
ley,  decided  in  the  House  of  Lords  in  1901 :  ' '  Lady  Violet 
Neville,  after  becoming  Countess  Cowley,  obtained  a  di 
vorce  from  her  husband  on  the  ground  of  his  misconduct. 
She  then  married  a  commoner,  a  Mr.  Biddulph,  but  never 
theless  continued  to  call  herself  Countess  Cowley.  The 
Earl  brought  proceedings  to  restrain  her  from  using  the 
name,  but  the  House  of  Lords,  on  appeal,  refused  to  grant 
an  injunction.  Lord  Macnaughton,  in  giving  judgment, 
said:  'Everybody  knows  that  it  is  a  very  common  prac 
tice  for  peeresses  (not  being  peeresses  in  their  own  right) 
after  marrying  Commoners  to  retain  the  title  lost  by  such 
marriage.  It  is  not  a  matter  of  right.  It  is  merely  a 
matter  of  courtesy,  and  allowed  by  the  usages  of  society. '  : 

And  all  this  time  (it  was  nearly  October)  never  a  word 
came  from  Loring.  Sophy  corresponded  with  his  mother, 
who  knew  nothing  of  the  strained  relations  between  them, 
and  through  her  she  learned  that  Morris  had  gone  to  Can 
ada  with  some  friends.  A  sporting  expedition.  Mrs.  Lor 
ing  mentioned  it  casually,  of  course,  supposing  that  Sophy 
knew  already.  Mrs.  Horton  and  Belinda  were  still  at 
Nahant.  Morry  had  been  so  thoughtful !  He  had  come 
down  to  say  good-by  to  her  before  starting  for  Canada — 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  473 

but  had  not  stopped  the  night.  Didn't  Sophy  think  he 
looked  rather  thin  ?  She  herself  was  much  better,  et  cetera, 
et  cetera. 

When  Sophy  read  this  letter,  she  wondered  what  had 
passed  between  Morris  and  Belinda  during  that  flying  visit 
to  Nahant.  He  was  evidently  "disciplining"  her  (Sophy). 
Silence  and  absence  were  to  bring  her  to  a  right  frame  of 
mind. 

She  began  to  get  desperately  restless  and  impatient.  She 
felt  that  she  must  come  to  a  definite  understanding  with 
him.  She  would  have  written,  but  she  did  not  wish  such  a 
letter  to  follow  him  from  place  to  place  at  the  risk  of 
getting  lost. 

Judge  Macon  had  heard  from  his  "friend  in  the  West." 
If  Mrs.  Loring  wished  to  institute  divorce  proceedings,  the 
sooner  she  came  to  Ontowega  herself  the  better.  So  wrote 
the  Western  lawyer.  He  wished  to  interview  Mrs.  Loring 
personally. 

Yet  Sophy  felt  that  it  would  be  impossible  for  her  to  go 
until  she  had  come  to  a  definite  understanding  with  Morris. 

All  her  philosophy,  drawn  sound  and  sweet  from  the 
sodden  husk  of  experience,  could  not  keep  her  from  fret 
ting  inwardly.  Her  first  irrepressible  joy  over  the  mere 
idea  of  freedom  died  flatly  down.  She  was  unhappy — 
even  very  unhappy.  Memories  stung  her  day  and  night. 
Vain  regret.  ...  It  was  like  the  feeling  of  homesickness 
for  a  home  that  has  been  burned  down.  As  she  walked  and 
rode,  as  she  sat  in  her  study,  with  its  perfume  of  rose- 
geraniums  and  cedar  wood,  her  collie  at  her  feet — these 
memories  came  teasing,  teasing,  like  wan-eyed,  persistent 
beggars  when  one's  purse  is  empty.  Sophy's  heart  was 
empty  of  the  coin  of  love — but  it  brimmed  with  pity — the 
heavy,  leaden  currency  of  pity. 

The  only  real  pleasure  that  she  had  in  these  days  was 
from  Amaldi's  letters.  The  first  one  had  been  sent  from 
the  steamer  in  which  he  had  sailed  for  Italy  a  few  days 
after  she  had  left  Newport.  It  was  rather  short,  rather 
shy.  "You  must  forbear  with  my  English,  please,"  he  had 
said.  "I  find  it  much  more  hard  to  write  than  in  speak 
ing."  But  the  little  quaintnesses  of  construction  only 
made  his  letter  seem  more  charming  to  her.  He  had  not 
alluded  to  their  last  meeting  except  indirectly.  He  wrote : 
' '  There  is  much  mist  this  morning.  I  see  the  last  of  Amer- 


474  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

ica,  dim  as  dreams  through  this  mist.  But  above  rises  the 
great  goddess,  she  that  is  to  America  what  Pallas  was  to 
Athens.  She  lifts  high  her  torch — and  it  seems  I  see  it 
shine  upon  your  face.  I  remember  her  name  and  the  mean 
ing  of  this  light  that  she  is  holding  so  high  above  the  mist. 
For  you  I  repeat  her  name  many  times  in  my  heart.  It 
is  with  a  feeling  of  religion  that  I  say  this  name  over  and 
over — linking  it  to  yours.  And  I  feel  that  for  you,  high 
above  all  mist,  is  that  pure  flame  shining." 

Sophy  loved  this  letter,  for,  among  other  things,  it  re 
assured  her  about  their  friendship.  It  made  her  feel  in 
many  ways  that  he  was  too  line  not  to  have  realised  that 
there  could  be  no  more  love  in  her  life,  and  too  strong  to 
sacrifice  their  beautiful  friendship  to  a  vain  desire  for 
something  that  could  never  be.  She  spent  a  solacing  hour 
in  writing  him  a  letter  such  as  she  felt  he  would  love  to 
receive — all  about  her  home,  herself,  her  daily  doings,  her 
dog,  her  horse  .  .  .  some  of  her  inmost  thoughts  that  she 
felt  he  wrould  understand  and  share  with  her. 

The  end  of  September  had  been  chilly,  but  October  came 
in  with  soft,  spring-like  showers  again,  very  mild — real 
May  weather — rather  like  Indian  Spring  than  Indian 
Summer.  On  the  second  day  the  showers  held  about  noon. 
Harold  Grey  set  off  with  the  whole  "bunch"  of  boys  for 
a  long-promised  jaunt.  They  were  to  ride  up  to  the  top 
of  Laurel  Mountain  and  spend  the  night  there  in  an  old 
rubble  hut,  sleeping  on  pine  boughs.  There  was  to  be  a 
camp-fire,  they  were  to  cook  their  own  meals.  Off  they 
went,  all  on  horseback,  laughing  and  singing: 

" Ole  ark   a-movin',   movin',   chillun!" 

Sophy  watched  Bobby  as  he  rode  off  on  the  old  Shelty, 
his  face  a-shine,  and  again  she  felt  that  it  was  all  worth 
while  if  Bobby  were  so  blissfully  content.  He  had  never 
worn  that  shining  face  in  Newport  or  New  York.  That 
afternoon  she  went  out  to  look  for  mushrooms.  This  was 
surely  ideal  mushroom  weather.  She  put  on  an  old  cor 
duroy  skirt,  and  stout  boots,  and  borrowed  a  little  basket 
from  Mammy  Nan. 

A  great  west  wind  had  suddenly  sprung  up.  Wild  tat 
ters  of  cloud  were  blown  across  the  sky.  Now  they  veiled, 


475 

now  they  revealed  the  sun.  The  box  hedges  glittered 
darkly,  waving  their  sombre  plumes  to  and  fro,  up  and 
down.  The  grass  glinted  like  yellow  crystal  as  the  sun 
caught  it.  Leaves  scurried  in  flocks  through  the  air.  The 
wet  clay  was  just  the  colour  of  a  sweating  sorrel  horse. 

Sophy  went  down  to  the  pasture  behind  the  stable. 
There  were  cattle  grazing  there — a  fine  black  Angus  bull, 
and  his  harem  of  forty  young  heifers.  But  she  was  not 
afraid  of  them — they  were  all  very  gentle,  the  black  Pasha 
as  well  as  his  wives. 

The  field  hollowed  in  the  middle,  and  a  little  dark-red 
path  coiled  through  the  soaked  green.  Sophy  dipped  under 
the  pasture-bars,  and  went  slowly  forward,  looking  to 
right  and  left,  for  the  cool,  fleshlike  glisten  of  fungi. 

The  bull  was  grazing  on  a  hill  at  the  far  end  of  the  field. 
His  splendid,  black  silhouette  stood  out  against  the  grey 
wrack  of  cloud.  Half  of  his  harem  grazed  near.  The 
other  half  had  discreetly  withdrawn  to  that  part  of  the 
field  where  Sophy  was  now  walking.  One  lovely  little 
heifer,  black  and  soft  of  pelt  as  a  black  Angora  cat,  re 
garded  her  musingly  out  of  lustrous,  still  eyes  that  were 
heavy  as  with  sorrow.  Sophy  went  up  to  her  .  .  .  put  out 
her  hand,  saying:  "Coo  .  .  .  co-o-o  ..." 

The  heifer  let  her  stroke  her  forehead,  her  ears — let  the 
slim,  quick  hand  run  along  her  sides,  play  with  her  glossy 
pelt.  "You  sweetheart!  ..."  said  Sophy. 

She  was  more  like  a  calm,  friendly  dog  than  a  cow. 
Sophy  finally  gave  her  a  kiss  between  her  tranquil,  mel 
ancholy  eyes,  and  continued  on  her  quest  for  mushrooms. 

The  wind  was  higher  than  ever  now.  It  blew  in  squally 
gusts.  Clouds  were  sagging  dark  in  the  southwest.  The 
sun  winked  in  and  out  like  the  light  of  a  great  pharos. 

Sophy  found  her  first  mushroom — small,  but  a  beauty. 
It  nestled  low  in  the  grass  on  its  plump,  naked  leg.  Its 
round,  white  top  was  faintly  browned  like  a  well-cooked 
meringue.  Then  she  found  another,  enormous — a  real 
prize,  it  seemed.  But  something  about  it  was  too  perfect — 
too  white.  She  nipped  it  out  of  its  green  bed,  and  looked 
at  the  gills.  They  were  snowy  white.  Its  slender  leg  was 
cased  in  a  fine,  white-silk  stocking  that  was  "coming 
down." 

"Oh,"   said    Sophy,   looking   queerly   at  the   too-lovely 


476  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

creature,  ' '  how  very  like  you  are  to  some  other  mistakes  of 
mine !  .  .  .  And  yet  ...  if  I  ate  you  .  .  .  you  would  cure 
them  all,"  she  ended  quizzically. 

She  threw  the  false  mushroom  away.  It  lay,  pale  and 
corpse-like,  in  the  wet  grass.  It  was  so  like  damp,  dead 
flesh  that  Sophy  shivered. 

Now  the  wind  began  really  to  tussle  with  her.  It  blew 
in  wild,  wlioorooshing  blasts.  The  thickets  seethed.  The 
old  orchard  on  the  hill  above  made  a  harsh  rattling  with 
its  gnarled  boughs.  She  could  see  the  tree-tops  on  the 
lawn,  bowing,  twisting,  lashing  wildly,  as  though  trying  to 
wrench  their  roots  free  from  the  grip  of  earth,  as  though 
possessed  to  follow  their  flying  leaves  into  the  sky.  Now 
came  a  spat  of  rain.  She  ducked  her  head  and  began 
to  run. 

The  bull  was  proceeding  with  majestic  leisureliness  to 
wards  his  shed.  He  booed  from  bass  to  treble,  several 
times.  "My  sultanas,"  said  this  booing,  "I  advise  you  to 
seek,  with  me,  the  shelter  of  my  palace." 

All  the  heifers  began  moving  after  him  towards  the 
shed.  Now  the  rain  came  in  earnest — big,  cold  drops. 
Sophy  ran  faster  and  faster.  The  mushrooms  in  her  bas 
ket  bounced  plumply.  She  was  afraid  they  would  be 
smashed.  She  took  off  her  brown  velvet  cap  and  pressed 
it  over  them  as  she  ran.  The  rain  rather  blinded  her.  She 
ran  full-tilt  into  some  one  who  emerged  suddenly  from 
behind  a  thicket  near  the  pasture-bars. 

"By  Jove!  .  .  .  You're  soaked!  ..."  said  a  voice  she 
knew.  It  was  Loring. 


XL 

SOPHY  let  him  take  the  basket  from  her  and  kiss  her  rain- 
wet  cheek.  She  was  glad  that  the  rain  came  between  her 
and  that  kiss.  She  could  not  say  anything  just  at  first — 
her  quick  running  and  the  suddenness  of  his  appearance 
had  quite  taken  her  breath  for  the  moment. 

"But  you're  sopping  .  .  .  sopping!  .  .  ."  he  kept  re 
peating.  He,  too,  could  not  think  of  anything  more  fitting 
to  say.  And  Sophy  began  to  murmur  back : 

But  you  're  getting  wet,  too  .  .  .  what  a  shame !  .  .  . " 

They  ran  together  towards  the  house.    But  now  the  rain 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  477 

ceased,  and  again  the  wind  came — vicious,  blatant.  The 
big  hedge  of  box  just  in  front  of  them  was  a  dark  fury  of 
tossing  boughs. 

' '  Oh,  the  trees !  ...  I  'm  so  afraid  some  of  the  trees  will 
go  down!  ..."  said  Sophy. 

They  ran  on  under  the  dark  tunnel  of  box,  and  out  upon 
the  lawn.  As  they  did  so,  Sophy  gave  a  cry  and  halted. 

"Look!"  she  gasped.  "The  big  locust  ...  oh!  ... 
It's  going  ...  it's  going  ..." 

She  ran  towards  the  middle  of  the  lawn.  Loring  fol 
lowed — caught  her  firmly  by  the  arm. 

"Wait  .  .  ."  he  said.     "Don't  go  any  nearer  ..." 

They  stood  dumbly  watching  the  giant  tree.  It  was  fully 
a  hundred  feet  high — a  monarch  shaft  crowned  with  mas 
sive  branches — wrapped  python-like  by  a  huge  trumpet- 
vine.  It  was  the  last  of  its  splendid  generation — a  royal 
tree.  Now  it  rocked  heavily — to  and  fro — farther  and  far 
ther  each  way,  each  time — a  groaning  sound  came  from  it. 
This  sound  splintered  suddenly.  It  was  like  the  bursting 
of  a  human  groan  into  a  shriek.  The  noble  crown  swept 
forward — majestically — as  it  were,  deliberately  at  first — 
then  faster,  faster,  in  a  sort  of  suicidal  frenzy.  The  huge 
tree  toppled,  split  at  its  middle  fork — went  crashing  down, 
ripping  loose  the  snaky  folds  of  vine,  shattering  the  trees 
next  it.  Their  splintered  tops  shone  suddenly  raw  and 
yellow  against  the  grey  sky.  The  remaining  half  of  the 
fallen  locust  had  a  great  "blaze"  all  down  one  side,  as 
though  it  had  been  stripped  by  lightning.  The  inner  wood, 
thus  disclosed,  all  torn  and  riven,  had  something  ghastly, 
like  the  revelation  of  a  wound  in  living  flesh. 

For  a  second  longer  Sophy  stood  quite  still.  Then  she 
ran  forward  again.  She  was  pale  as  at  an  accident  to  a 
dear  friend. 

The  locust  stretched  across  the  gravel  driveway.  Its 
crown  lay  among  the  crushed  branches  of  a  huge  box- 
shrub.  The  poor  box-shrub  had  a  piteous,  feminine  look, 
as  though  it  had  tried  in  vain  to  support  the  stricken  giant 
on  its  soft  breast.  The  boughs  and  leaves  of  the  prone  tree 
still  quivered  slightly  as  in  a  death-throe.  The  big  vine 
swung  its  loose,  snaky  folds  over  the  ruin.  The  grass  was 
strewn  with  leaves  and  broken  limbs.  Sophy  went  up  and 
put  her  hand  on  the  rough  trunk  in  silence.  Her  lips 
quivered. 


478  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

' '  What  an  infernal  shame ! ' '  said  Loring. 

He  stared  all  about,  then  at  the  wrecked  tree  again. 

"Isn't  this  where  the  hammocks  used  to  hang?"  he 
asked. 

"Yes,"  said  Sophy. 

They  stood  silent  again.  Both  were  thinking  of  how 
they  had  swung  day  after  day  in  those  hammocks  in  their 
love-time.  Then  the  scarlet  bells  of  the  trumpet-vine  had 
hung  above  them.  It  had  been  like  their  flowering  passion 
swinging  scarlet  bells  above  them.  Both  felt  something 
sad  and  ominous  in  the  fall  of  the  great  tree  just  as  Loring 
had  arrived. 

"I'll  send  the  gardener  to  see  about  it,"  Sophy  said  at 
last,  turning  away.  They  went  together  to  the  house. 

' '  When  can  I  see  you  .  .  .  for  a  long  talk  ? ' '  asked  Lor 
ing,  as  they  reached  the  door. 

"As  soon  as  I've  changed.  You'll  want  to  change,  too. 
Is  your  luggage  here  ? ' ' 

"Yes.     A  darkey  drove  me  up  from  Sweet- Waters. " 

' '  Has  Mammy  Nan  seen  to  your  room  ? ' ' 

"Thanks.    Yes.    Everything's  quite  right." 

"Then  ...  in  half  an  hour  ...  in  my  study." 

Loring  told  himself  that  he'd  forgotten  how  beautiful 
she  was.  And  that  black  bow  on  her  hair!  .  .  .  lie  had 
not  seen  her  wear  that  black  bow  since  .  .  .  Oh,  what  a 
fool  he'd  been!  .  .  .  what  a  superlative  ass!  .  .  .  That 
black  bow  had  a  queer  magic  for  him.  It  made  the  past 
seem  only  yesterday.  Oddly  it  set  her  back  where  she  had 
been  when  he  first  saw  her  wear  it.  It  shook  his  lordly 
sense  of  possession.  She  had  not  belonged  to  him  then. 
Somehow  she  did  not  seem  to  belong  to  him  now.  He  felt 
doubtful  .  .  .  apprehensive.  What  if  .  .  .?  Yes.  What 
if  .  .  .? 

He  changed  hurriedly  and  went  down  to  her  study.  A 
clear  fire  of  apple-boughs  and  cedar  burned  on  the  hearth. 
The  warmth  drew  their  sweetest  scent  from  the  rose-geran 
iums.  There  were  no  fuchsias  on  the  green  steps  now.  It 
irritated  Charlotte  that  Sophy  would  not  have  her  splendid 
fuchsias  in  this  room.  But  Sophy  could  not  endure  the 
fantastic  flowers  near  her.  They  were  too  potent  with 
wild  memories. 

Before  the  fire  Dhu  was  lying.  He  eyed  Loring  from 
golden,  white-rimmed  eyes  without  moving  at  first.  Then 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  479 

he  rose  and  wagged  a  languidly  polite  tail.  He  had  never 
quite  approved  of  the  young  man. 

Loring  sat  down  and  tried  to  beguile  the  dog  into  friend 
ship.  Dhu  was  civil  but  distant.  Sophy  came  in,  and  he 
rushed  and  reared  upon  her,  putting  a  paw  on  either 
shoulder. 

She  looked  very  tall  in  her  black  satin  tea-gown.  The 
collie  was  beautifully  golden  against  the  black,  shining 
stuff.  And  this  gown  Loring  recognised  as  he  had  recog 
nised  the  black  bow.  It  was  a  gown  of  old  days.  It  had 
some  yellow  lace  at  the  throat,  and  queer,  carved  silver 
buttons.  How  that  lace  smelt  sweet  of  her !  How  often 
he  had  kissed  it  in  kissing  her  throat !  And  those  silver 
buttons  .  .  .  how  cold  and  hard  they  had  felt  to  his  cheek 
upon  the  warmth  of  her  breast ! 

She  came  up  and  sat  down  in  her  own  low  chair  on  the 
other  side  of  the  hearth. 

' '  Quite  Darby  and  Joan  we  look  ..."  said  Loring,  with 
a  nervous  laugh.  Sophy  smiled,  but  this  smile  was  enig 
matic. 

"Why  didn't  you  write  to  me?  Why  didn't  you  tell  me 
you  were  coming,  Morris?"  she  asked  gently. 

"Oh  .  .  .  well  ..."  said  Loring. 

He  went  red,  and  fussed  with  a  piece  of  cedar  that  had 
fallen  on  the  hearth.  The  fragrant  smoke  got  into  his  eyes 
and  made  them  smart. 

"You  see  .  .  ."he  went  on  with  more  assurance,  as  he 
hammered  the  log  into  place  again,  "I  knew  this  was  the 
sort  of  thing  that  would  have  to  be  talked  out  ..." 

"Well,  then  .  .  .?"  said  Sophy. 

He  glanced  at  her  rather  sheepishly. 

"Oh,  hang  it  all,  Sophy!"  he  said.  "Don't  make  it  too 
hard.  What  do  you  want?  .  .  .  Probation?  .  .  .  Kow 
towing  ?  What  ? ' ' 

' '  No.  I  don 't  want  anything  like  that,  Morris.  What  I 
want  is  for  us  both  to  act  like  good,  sensible  friends, 
and  .  t<  ." 

^Friends!"  he  exclaimed. 

"Yes  .  .  .  friends,"  said  she  firmly. 

"Now  look  here,  Sophy,"  he  protested,  red  again.  "You 
surely  aren't  nursing  that  grievance  still?  After  all  these 
weeks?" 

"What  'grievance'  do  you  allude  to,  Morris?" 


480  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

lie  grew  redder  and  redder. 

"Why  .  .  .  you  knew,"  he  muttered  shamefacedly. 

"No,  Morris.  I  don't.  I  really  haven't  any  'griev 
ance.'  You  did  a  thing  that  seems  to  me  final.  It  isn't  a 
grievance  ...  it's  just  an  end." 

"Now,  Sophy!  If  you  think  my  .  .  .  my  .  .  .  a  .  .  . 
my  idiocy  with  that  girl  .  .  . " 

"Morris  .  .  .  don't!  But  while  that  is  one  reason  of 
my  feeling  as  I  do  ...  it  isn't  the  thing  I  mean." 

"Then  in  God's  name  .  .  .  what  is?" 

He  was  standing  now,  looking  excited  and  angry.  He 
came  over  in  front  of  her. 

"What  is?"  he  repeated. 

Sophy  looked  up  at  him  and  her  nostrils  spread  a  little. 

"Have  you  really  forgotten?"  she  said,  in  a  clear  voice. 
"You  accused  me  of  having  a  lover  ..." 

"Oh,  for  God's  sake !"  cried  Loring.  His  chest  laboured 
with  his  strong  excitement.  "Haven't  I  told  you  I  was 
damned  sorry?  Haven't  I  apologised — humbly?  Haven't 
I  explained  I  was  out  of  my  wits?  Haven't  I? 
Haven't  I?" 

He  stood  waiting  for  her  to  answer.  All  up  in  arms — 
white  now — quite  outraged  by  her  unkind  obstinacy. 

She  answered  without  apparent  emotion : 

"All  that  doesn't  change  what  you  said  then.  Of  course 
you  apologise — of  course  you  say  you  were  out  of  your 
wits.  What  else  could  you  say  ?  But —  Well,  you  see, 
Morris — it  happens  to  be  one  of  those  facts  that  can't  be 
wiped  out  by  apologies  and  regrets.  Some  words  can't  be 
wiped  out  by  other  words,"  she  ended,  with  a  flash  of  bit 
terness. 

He  gazed  at  her  sullenly. 

"Can't  you  make  allowances  for  a  man's  being  mad  with 
jealousy?"  he  said. 

"No.    Jealousy — of  that  kind — is  always  an  insult." 

He  stood  silent  for  a  while.  Then  suddenly  he  dropped 
to  his  knees  beside  her.  He  felt  inspired. 

"Sophy  .  .  ."he  said  very  low,  a  sort  of  wheedling  cun 
ning  in  his  voice.  "I  wonder  ...  if  you  aren't  .  .  .  just 
a  bit  ...  jealous,  yourself?" 

"I?" 

"Yes.  You.  Of  .  .  .oh,  you  know  who  I  mean!  But, 
Sophy  .  .  .  listen  ...  I  swear  to  you  a  man  can  be  ... 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  481 

like  that  .  .  .  about  another  woman — and  yet  love  his 
wife  .  .  .  really  love  only  her  ...  I  swear  it  to  you." 

Sophy  smiled  again. 

' '  Yes.    So  I  've  heard, ' '  she  said. 

lie  was  eager  in  a  moment. 

"Well,  then  .  .  .  don't  you  see?  ...  It  was  only  a  ... 
a  flash  in  the  pan — as  one  might  say.  .  .  .  Really,  you 
know,  it 's  true.  That  one  can  fancy  a  woman  for  a  bit  like 
that,  yet  never  dream  of  loving  her  as  one  loves  one's 
wife  .  .  ." 

"Morris  ..."  said  Sophy  seriously.  She  leaned  her 
chin  on  her  hand,  and  looked  gravely  at  him. 

"Well?"  he  said  expectantly. 

"What  would  you  think  of  an  American  who  had  him 
self  naturalised  a  German,  or  a  Russian,  or  a  Spaniard 
.  .  .  yet  declared  that  he  really  loved  America  best  of 
all?" 

"I  don't  see  ..."  stammered  Loring. 

"Yes,  you  do  see,"  smiled  Sophy.  "And  I  want  to  take 
this  opportunity  of  assuring  you  that  I'm  not  jealous  of 
Belinda.  Only — please  don't  try  to  make  your  love  for 
her  a  proof  of  your  still  greater  love  for  me." 

"Sophy  .  .  .!" 

"I'm  not  one  oj  those  people  who  cut  up  love  into  sec 
tions — vivisect  it  ...  for  it  dies,  I  can  tell  you,  when  it's 
hacked  to  bits  like  that !  .  .  .  This  part  ignoble — that  part 
noble.  Love  is  a  whole — a  whole — or  it  is  nothing.  What 
you  gave  to  Belinda  you  could  not  have  given  her  if  you  'd 
loved  me  really.  I  don't  say  would  not  ...  I  say  could 
not.  .  .  ." 

"But  I  swear  to  you  ..." 

"...  Could  not!"  repeated  Sophy  inflexibly. 

He  had  got  to  his  feet  again,  and  was  looking  at  her 
with  a  disturbed,  baffled  look. 

"I  do  love  you,  Sophy,"  he  said  at  last.  "Don't  you 
believe  I  love  you?" 

"In  a  way  .  .  .  yes,"  said  Sophy. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  'in  a  way'?" 

' '  Well — in  a  way  that  doesn  't  allow  me  to  interfere  with 
greater  pleasures." 

He  went  crimson. 

"Oh,  I  say!"  he  said.  "How  unkind  .  .  .  how  awfully 
hard  and  unkind  of  you ! ' ' 


482  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

"There  mustn't  be  anything  but  truth  in  this  talk  be 
tween  us,  Morris.  I'm  sorry  to  seem  unkind.  I  only  said 
what  I  feel  and  believe." 

"God!  I  didn't  know  you  could  be  so  cruel  ..."  he 
muttered,  staring  at  the  fire. 

"It  isn't  I  that  am  cruel;  it's  the  truth  that's  cruel," 
she  said. 

"You  call  that  'the  truth'?  .  .  .  God!"  he  said  again. 

"Then  tell  me  .  .  ."  she  said.  "What  pleasure  have 
you  ever  put  second  to  me  ? ' ' 

"What  .  .  .  pleasure?"  he  stammered. 

She  looked  at  him  steadily. 

"Yes  .  .  .  what  pleasure?"  she  repeated. 

"I  ...  I  ..." 

He  was  frankly  at  a  loss.  She  had  such  a  queer,  up 
setting  way  of  putting  things.  He  stood  ruffled,  resentful, 
aggrieved,  helpless.  Not  a  pleasure  could  he  think  of  that 
he  had  not  put  before  her.  His  head  buzzed  with  the  ef 
fort  to  recall  some  small  sacrifice  that  he  had  made  in  her 
behalf.  She  was  speaking  in  a  different  voice  now — softer, 
more  feeling. 

"Ah,  Morris,"  she  said,  "it  is  all  so  sad  ...  so  hor 
ribly  sad !  Though  I  may  seem  unkind — my  heart  aches 
with  it.  But  this  has  not  come  suddenly.  A  long,  long 
time  it's  been  coming.  It  began  .  .  .  yes  .  .  .  that  night 
.  .  .  do  you  remember? — that  night  over  two  years  ago 
.  .  .  when  you  came  to  my  room  .  .  ." — she  hesitated, 
caught  her  lip  hard  for  a  second,  went  on  in  a  lower 
voice — "when  you  came  to  me — not  yourself  .  .  .  for 
drink.  ..." 

He  had  put  up  one  hand  over  his  eyes  as  he  leaned  with 
his  elbow  on  the  mantelpiece.  He  said  in  a  choked  voice: 

"I've  been  a  beast  .  .  .  sometimes  ...  I  admit." 

She  hesitated  again;  then  said,  whispering: 

"That  was  a  pleasure  you  always  put  before  me." 

"Don't! "he  said. 

"I  won't,  then,"  she  answered  pityingly. 

Her  eyes  scalded  with  tears.  Her  hands,  locked  hard 
together,  were  trembling. 

There  was  a  long  pause. 

' '  Sophy, ' '  he  said  presently,  very  low,  his  hand  still  over 
his  eyes,  "how  if  I  take  an  oath  to  you  never  to  drink 
again?" 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  483 

She  looked  with  a  tender,  wise  look  at  his  hidden  face. 

"You  would  come  to  hate  me  for  it  in  the  end,  dear." 

"Oh  .  .  .  Sophy  .  .  ." 

"Yes,  dear.     You  would." 

"I  know.  .  .  .  You  think  I  couldn't  keep  it,"  he  said 
miserably. 

"No.  But  if  you  kept  it,  you  would  be  hating  me  all 
the  time." 

A  gush  of  bitterness  rose  in  him. 

"So  that's  what  you  think  of  me!"  he  said. 

"It's  what  I  think  your  nature  would  make  you  feel — 
bound  by  such  an  oath. ' ' 

There  came  another  pause. 

He  broke  out  rather  vehemently  again: 

"At  least  do  me  the  justice  to  admit  that  I  was  dead  set 
against  having  Linda  visit  us  .  .  ." 

"Yes.  I  remember.  But  it  would  have  come  sooner  or 
later.  You  would  have  been  thrown  with  her  in  other 
ways. ' ' 

"You  really  think  I  ...  a  ...  care  for  her?" 

Sophy  didn  't  answer  for  a  second  or  two ;  then  she  said : 

"Morris  .  .  .  that  morning  at  Newport  .  .  .  when  you 
said  those  words  to  me  .  .  .  you  told  me  afterwards — that 
it  was  Belinda  who  had  made  you  .  .  .  suspect  me." 

"Ah  .  .  .  don't  put  it  that  way!  .  .  ." 

"What  other  way  can  I  put  it?  You  did  tell  me  it  was 
Belinda,  didn't  you?" 

"Yes.    And  a  more  ..." 

"Wait,  Morris.  I  want  to  ask  you  something.  Whether 
you  answer  it  or  not,  I  must  ask  it.  It 's  this :  You  had 
been  with  Belinda — before  you  came  to  me.  Had  you 
been  together — like  lovers?" 

He  dropped  his  face  into  his  two  hands.  She  could  see 
the  hot  flush  on  it  between  his  fingers. 

' '  Oh  .  .  .  but  you  're  hard !  .  .  . "  he  groaned. 

Now  Sophy  had  her  moment  of  bitterness. 

"I  know,"  she  said,  "that  the  perfect  wife  is  supposed 
to  be  motherly  when  her  husband 's  fancy  strays — and  lover- 
like  when  it  turns  home  again.  But  I  am  not  perfect  in 
any  way.  And  I  don't  think  I'm  hard  when  I  ask  for 
truth  between  us." 

Loring  dropped  his  hands  and  uncovered  eyes  ablaze 
with  a  helpless  fury  of  regret  and  vindictiveness. 


484 

"I  wish  to  God  the  girl  had  never  been  born!"  he  eried. 

"You  haven't  answered  me  yet,"  said  Sophy. 

He  gazed  at  her  with  a  sort  of  braggadocio  of  defiance 
for  an  instant,  then  dropped  his  face  into  his  hands  again. 

"Oh  .  .  .  it's  no  use!  .  .  ."he  lamented.  "We  are  low 
brutes  .  .  .  men  are  low  brutes.  .  .  .  Passion  is  a  low 
thing  .  .  ." 

"No — real  passion  is  not  low,"  Sophy  broke  in  on  him. 

"You  know  what  I  mean  .  .  ."  he  muttered. 

"Yes.  I  do.  But  don't  call  mere  sensuality  passion. 
Real  passion  is  like  a  great,  flowering  tree.  Its  roots  strike 
deep  into  the  earth  ...  its  crown  is  among  the  stars.  Do 
you  call  a  red  rose  'low'  because  it  springs  from  the 
earth?" 

' '  How  you  catch  one  up  ! ' '  protested  Loring  moodily. 

She  rushed  on : 

"I  do  hate  so  to  hear  that  word  misused — abused!  Sen 
sual  fancies  are  low  because  they  have  no  soul  ...  no 
flowering.  They  are  like  truffles  ...  all  of  the  earth 
earthy.  Yes  .  .  .  there  are  truffle-loves,"  she  ended  bit 
terly. 

"And  men,  you  think,  are  like  swine  rooting  for  truf 
fles  ? "  he  muttered. 

"Sometimes  .  .  .  when  Circe  is  about  ..."  she  ad 
mitted. 

Morris  got  up  and  leaned  again  upon  the  mantelpiece. 
He  heaved  a  disconsolate  sigh. 

"Oh,  Lord  !  .  .  .  What  a  talk  for  a  man  to  have  with  his 
wife ! "  he  said  heavily. 


XLI 

SOPHY  sat  watching  him,  and  her  heart  yearned  over  him. 
In  spite  of  her  flash  of  bitterness,  she  did  feel  truly  mother- 
like  towards  him.  He  seemed  to  her  so  young — so  very, 
touchingly  young  as  he  leaned  there  against  the  old,  smoke- 
toned  ivory  of  the  carved  mantelpiece,  grasping  the  ledge, 
his  forehead  on  the  back  of  his  hand.  She  knew  how  crush- 
ingly  he  was  realising  that  he  had  "made  a  mess  of 
things."  But  then — he  had  made  a  mess  of  things.  She 
was  powerless  to  comfort  him  there.  If  she  could  only 
show  him  how  much  better  it  would  be  not  to  try  to  rear- 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  485 

range  this  tangle — but  to  step  free  of  it,  and  begin  over 
.  .  .  that  there  was  no  real  adjustment  of  their  two  lives 
— their  two  utterly  different  natures,  possible.  .  .  .  Could 
she  show  him?  Well  .  .  .  she  could  at  least  try.  .  .  . 

"Morris,"  she  said  softly.  "Suppose  we  try  to  look  at 
it  all  from  another  angle?  Suppose  we  try  to  see  it  all  as 
though  we  weren't  concerned  in  it — as  if  some  one  had 
asked  our  impartial  advice?  Don't  you  think  that  would 
be  a  good  way  to  get  at  it?" 

' '  But  what  is  it  you  want  to  '  get  at, '  Sophy  ?  What  is  it 
you  want  me  to  do?  God  knows  I'm  ready  to  do  any 
thing  .  .  ." 

"Anything?" 

"Yes  .  .  .  anything  in  reason,"  he  hedged  nervously. 

' '  Would  you  call  it  reasonable  for  us  both  to  be  free  ? ' ' 

He  started — eyed  her  suspiciously. 

"How  'free'?    Free  in  what  way?" 

"Quite,  quite  free,  Morris." 

He  paled. 

"Divorce  .  .  .?"  he  said. 

"Yes." 

"You  want  to  divorce  me?" 

"I  want  us  both  to  have  our  own  lives  wholly  in  our 
own  hands  again — that  is  the  only  way." 

He  stared  at  her,  whiter  and  whiter. 

"Didn't  you  ever  .  .  .  love  me  .  .  .  at  all?"  he  man 
aged,  at  last. 

' '  Ah ! — you  know  whether  I  loved  you  ..." 

"You  .  .  .  you  mean  ...  I  ...  I've  killed  it?" 

"Yes,  dear." 

"Oh,  you  are  cruel  .  .  .  you  are  cruel!  .  .  ."he  burst 
out.  He  stared  at  her,  his  face  working.  "You're  the 
cruelest  woman  God  ever  made ! "  he  said  huskily. 

Sophy  was  white  too.     She,  too,  stammered  a  little. 

"I  ...  I  think  .  .  .  that  truth  ...  is  nearly  always 
cruel,"  she  said.  "But  it's  only  truth  that  will  make  us 
free.  .  .  ." 

His  hands  were  gripping  the  sides  of  the  chair  into 
which  he  had  sunk  again,  so  that  his  arms  trembled. 

"Damn  the  truth,  then  .  .  .!"  he  said  slowly  and 
thickly. 

"You'd  want  to  keep  a  wife  who  doesn't  love  you  as  a 
wife  should?" 


486  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

"Yes,  I  want  to  keep  you.  ...  I  want  to  keep  you  if 
you  hate  me!  ...  Yes.  Yes." 

"That  is  cruelty.  ..." 

"  Is  it  ?    Then  I  'm  cruel,  too. ' ' 

Sophy  sat  with  her  eyes  on  his  suffused,  lowering  face. 
Her  hand  went  to  and  fro  over  the  collie's  head.  She  sat 
so  long1  thus,  without  speaking,  that  he  said  gruffly: 

' '  Well  ?    What  now  ?    Why  do  you  stare  so  ? " 

"I'm  trying  to  imagine  how  it  would  be  to  feel  like  that. 
I'm  trying  to  get  your  point  of  view." 

"How  .  .  .  my  point  of  view?" 

"The  wanting  to  hold  a  woman  against  her  will.  But 
I  can't  understand  it.  I  never  understood  how  a 
man  or  woman  could  want  to  hold  another  when  love 
had  gone  .  .  .  the  love  that  is  the  only  reason  for 
marriage. ' ' 

"You  rub  it  in,  don't  you?" 

She  said  sadly : 

' '  Why  do  you  speak  so  roughly  and  bitterly  to  me — as  if 
it  were  my  love  only  that  had  failed  ?  Do  you  think  I 
didn't  know  when  first  your  love  began  to  wane?" 

lie  tried  to  brave  it  out. 

"And  why  did  it  'wane,'  as  you  call  it?  Can  a  man  be 
snubbed  day  in,  day  out,  and  yet  keep  at  concert  pitch  for 
ever?" 

"You  mean  that  I  would  not  respond  to  you  when  you 
had  been  drinking?" 

"Well— put  it  that  way." 

Sophy  gave  a  tired  sigh. 

"Why  must  we  go  over  it  and  over  it?"  she  asked.  "It 
is  not  me  that  you  want,  Morris — it  is  your  own  way.  You 
never  want  what  is  yours — only  what  is  out  of  reach.  You 
have  turned  on  Belinda  now,  only  because  she  came  to  you 
too  easily.  If  I  came  back  to  you — you  would  not  want 
me  any  longer." 

He  sneered. 

"It's  easy  to  say  what  I  would  or  wouldn't  do.  It's 
easy  to  arraign  me.  But  what  of  yourself?  I  thought  you 
were  so  great  on  unselfishness?  Where's  the  unselfishness 
in  all  this,  I  'd  like  to  know  ? ' ' 

"I'm  not  trying  to  be  unselfish,  Morris.  I've  been  un 
selfish  so  long  that  I've  nearly  lost  my  best  self.  I  find  it's 
better  to  keep  one's  best  self  than  to  be  selfless." 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  487 

He  looked  startled  at  this  heresy  against  the  great  Credo 
of  M an  's-Ideal- Woman. 

"Good  Lord  !  .  .  .  You  have  changed !"  he  said,  in  blank 
dismay.  "It  doesn't  seem  to  be  you  talking  ..." 

"It's  a  'me'  that  you  don't  know,  perhaps.  ..." 

"I  certainly  don't  know  this  side  of  you." 

"It  isn't  a  side  of  me — it's  the  core  of  me." 

They  were  both  silent  again.  Loring  was  the  first  to 
take  it  up. 

"Look  here  .  .  .  have  you  spoken  to  Judge  Macon  and 
your  sister  about  all  this  ? ' ' 

"Yes." 

He  reddened  angrily. 

"A  pleasant  position  for  me,  isn't  it?" 

"It's  odious  for  both  of  us,  Morris,"  she  said,  with 
feeling. 

"Did  you  tell  them  about  .  .  .  about  .  .  .?" 

He  couldn't  bring  it  out. 

' '  I  told  them  about  you  and  Belinda.  I  didn  't  tell  them 
.  .  .  that  other  thing.  I  couldn't  tell  any  one  that  ..." 

"Oh  .  .  .  thanks!"  he  sneered. 

Sophy  flashed  out : 

"It  wasn't  for  your  sake  I  didn't  tell  them — it  was  for 
my  own ! ' ' 

He  looked  staggered.  He  was  so  used  to  her  forbear 
ance  and  gentleness  that  he  could  almost  have  believed  in 
the  old  tales  of  "possession."  It  was  as  though  Sophy's 
body  had  become  "possessed"  by  a  strange,  heretic  spirit 
that  denied  all  her  former  religion  of  abnegation  in  one 
strange  speech  after  the  other.  He  was  humiliatingly  at  a 
loss  in  dealing  with  this  new,  essential  Sophy.  He  felt 
something  as  the  Miltonian  Adam  might  have  felt  if  his 
docile  Eve  had  announced  her  intention  of  leaving  him  and 
Eden  in  the  companionship  of  the  serpent.  Indeed,  these 
new  ideas  of  hers  hissed  like  a  whole  nestful  of  serpents. 
And  all  the  time,  just  because — in  spite  of  his  angry  denials 
— she  seemed  slipping  farther  and  farther  from  him — he 
desired  her  as  he  had  never  desired  her.  Not  beautifully, 
as  of  old — but  desperately,  bitterly,  blindly ! 

He  sprang  up  suddenly,  and  took  a  few  turns  about  the 
room.  He  went  and  stood  at  the  window,  gazing  out  into 
the  twilight.  The  fire  reflected  in  the  window-panes  seemed 
flickering  among  the  dark  leaves  of  the  magnolia. 


488  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

Joycie  came  in  with  the  tea  things.  He  sat  sullenly 
nursing  one  leg  upon  the  other  while  Sophy  made  tea.  He 
wouldn't  have  any. 

They  could  hear  Charlotte's  voice  here  and  there  about 
the  house.  The  Judge  rode  past  the  window  on  Silvernose. 
But  no  one  interrupted  them.  Only  Joycie  came  in  after 
a  little,  to  clear  away  the  tea  things.  She  went  out  with 
the  tray,  Dhu  following  her,  and  they  were  alone  once 
more.  Sophy  rose  as  Joycie  went  out,  and  herself  lighted 
the  lamp  on  her  writing-table. 

"Why  didn't  you  ask  me  to  do  that?"  he  said  irritably. 

"I  didn't  think,"  she  answered. 

Now  in  the  lamplight  he  could  see  how  very  white  and 
tired  she  looked.  His  heart  softened.  He  went  over  im 
pulsively  and  stood  close  to  her. 

"Sophy,"  he  said,  "what  is  it  you  really  want?" 

Her  answer  gushed  quick  and  hot  like  heart's  blood : 

' '  My  freedom,  Morris !  .  .  .  My  freedom  .  .  .  my  free 
dom!"  It  was  like  the  breaking  of  the  waters.  It  poured 
in  a  cataract  of  passionate,  breathless  words.  "Oh,  be  kind 
...  be  generous,  let  me  go,  without  haggling  .  .  .  with 
out  bitterness.  .  .  .  We  owe  it  to  the  past  to  part  as  friends. 
We  should  be  big  in  this  big  thing  .  .  .  get  above  little 
ness  of  every  sort.  Just  because  we  have  made  a  heart 
rending  mistake  .  .  .  why  should  we  be  like  enemies  ?  .  .  . 
Give  me  this  one  memory  of  you  .  .  .  clear,  great.  Some 
thing  I  can  remember  all  beautiful.  You  owe  it  to  our 
love,  Morris.  You  owe  it  to  that  wonderful  dream  we 
dreamt  together.  ..." 

"Stop  .  .  .  stop!  ..."  he  gasped.  "It's  like  death.  .  .  . 
It's  worse  than  death.  ..." 

"Oh,  my  dear!  ..."  she  said.  "I  know.  .  .  .  It's  hor 
rible  !  To  me,  too,  it 's  horrible.  .  .  .  But  let  me  go  ... 
ah,  let  me  go,  and  I'll  love  you  with  a  new  love!  ...  It 
will  last  ...  it  will  bless  you  all  your  life.  .  .  .  Let  me 
go,  dear,  let  me  go !  .  .  . " 

He  stood  shaking.  His  breath  came  quick  and  hard.  He 
was  dreadfully  near  to  tears. 

"I  can't,"  he  got  out  at  last. 

"Yes.    Yes.    You  can  .  .  .  you  will.  ..." 

"No,  "he  stuttered,  "no  ...  no  ..." 

She  turned  away,  sank  down  again,  her  face  in  her 
hands.  For  a  second  or  two  he  stood  watching  her.  Then 


489 

he  went  and  flung  himself  on  his  knees  before  her  as  he 
had  done  that  wild,  windy  night,  three  years  ago.  He 
grasped  either  side  of  her  chair  as  he  had  done  then,  pris 
oning  yet  not  touching  her  with  his  arms. 

"  Beautiful  .  .  ."he  whispered.     "  Beautiful  ..." 

She  cowered  back  as  though  he  had  struck  her,  her  face 
still  hidden. 

"Don't  you  remember  ..."  the  husky  voice  went  on. 
""That  night  .  .  .  the  wind  .  .  .  the  wild  moon?  ...  Oh, 
Selene !  Selene !  .  .  .  I  've  blasphemed  .  .  .  but  I  still 
worship.  ...  I  still  worship.  ..." 

She  began  to  sob,  desperately,  helplessly,  like  a  child. 

"Forgive  me  .  .  .  take  me  back,  Selene.  .  .  .  Only  try 
me  once  more.  .  .  .  This  one  time.  .  .  .  You'll  see.  .  .  . 
You'll  see  you  can  trust  me  ...  give  me  your  love  again 
.  .  .  this  once  .  .  .  this  once  ..." 

She  struggled  to  speak.  The  big  sobs  choked  her.  At 
last,  between  them,  the  words  came.  "It's  ...  all  ... 
emptiness,"  she  said,  "here  ..."  She  put  one  hand  to 
her  breast.  "There's  nothing  ..."  The  sobs  broke  in 
again.  ".  .  .  To  give  ..."  she  ended. 

He  knelt  staring  at  the  slight  hand  that  still  hid  her  face 
from  him.  Suddenly  he  noticed,  as  Amaldi  had  done,  that 
her  wedding  ring  was  not  on  it.  He  dropped  his  head 
upon  her  knees.  That  broke  his  manhood  to  see  that  she 
had  put  aside  even  the  symbol  of  their  union.  He  felt  her 
hand  upon  his  hair.  He  wept  and  wept,  wishing,  as  he  had 
wished  about  Belinda — that  he  had  never  been  born. 

And  over  Sophy  came  the  old  feeling  of  nightmare — the 
sensation  of  having  lived  twice  over  her  fatal  marriage  with 
Chesney.  Just  so  Cecil  had  once  clung  weeping  to  her 
knees.  But  then  she  still  had  some  hope — some  h)ve 
to  give.  Now  she  was  beggared  of  all  but  pity.  And 
even  this  pity  was  not  strong  enough  to  make  her  re 
turn  once  more  to  the  unspeakable  sacrifice  of  loveless 
marriage. 

A  sudden  rattling  at  the  door  sent  him  to  his  feet,  appre 
hensive,  shamefaced.  Then  an  impatient  whine  told  him 
that  it  was  only  the  collie  asking  to  be  let  in  again.  He 
crossed  over  and  opened  the  door  with  a  vexed  jerk.  The 
dog  always  irritated  him.  Now  he  would  have  liked  to 
kick  it.  The  collie  rushed  over  to  Sophy,  and  pressed 
against  her  anxiously,  as  if  he  knew  something  were  wrong 


490  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

with  her.  He  whined  again,  nuzzling  his  head  against  her 
breast.  Loring  pulled  out  his  watch. 

"I  suppose  I'd  better  get  ready  for  dinner,"  he  said. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  rising. 

He  held  open  the  door  for  her,  and  she  went  out,  her 
swollen  eyelids  lowered.  His  heart  gave  a  great  gulp  as 
she  passed  him — half  love,  half  anger.  His  vanity  ached 
with  resentment  that  she  should  hold  out  against  him  like 
this.  What  was  left  of  love  ached  also  with  the  dread  of 
losing  her.  He  was  beginning  to  take  it  in  that  he  really 
might  lose  her. 

As  he  changed  for  dinner,  he  bruised  his  brain  trying  to 
recall  exactly  the  words  that  he  had  used  to  her  in  that 
imad  outbreak  of  jealousy.  He  could  not  remember  half. 
But  what  he  did  remember  made  him  scorch  with  shame. 
Xo  wonder  she  had  revolted !  .  .  .  No  wonder !  .  .  .  No 
wonder!  .  .  .  He  had  this  spasmodic  burst  of  inward  hon 
esty.  But  then  again  she  was  too  hard  .  .  .  too  self-right 
eous.  Yes,  damn  it  all  ...  that  was  what  she  was — "self- 
righteous  ' ' ! 

A  reaction  of  mood  began  to  set  in.  The  dinner  was 
constrained  and  painful  to  a  degree.  Every  one  was  glad 
to  go  to  bed  early  and  break  up  the  oppressive  evening. 

That  night  Belinda  haunted  Loring 's  dreams.  He  would 
wake  up  aflame — resentful  .  .  .  then  plunge  back  into  the 
maze  of  lurid  dreams  again.  Towards  morning  he  had  a 
long,  hateful  illusion  of  being  married  to  both  Sophy  and 
Belinda.  He  was  going  up  an  endless  church-aisle  all 
sickly  with  flowers — and  on  either  arm  was  a  bride  in  veil 
and  orange-blossoms.  And  one  of  these  brides  was  Sophy, 
and  one  Belinda. 

The  dream  was  ridiculous  and  horrible  as  well  as  hate 
ful.  The  clergyman  was  a  huge  negro,  all  in  red.  He  wore 
an  Oxford  cap  and  married  them  out  of  a  little  box  cov 
ered  with  red  velvet,  instead  of  out  of  a  prayer-book.  This 
box  was  a  music-box.  The  clergyman  explained.  He  said : 
"When  I  grind  the  first  tune,  you  will  be  married  to  this 
woman."  He  pointed  at  Sophy.  "When  I  grind  the  sec 
ond  tune,  you  will  be  married  to  this  woman."  He  indi 
cated  Belinda.  Then  he  ground  away  at  the  little  red  vel 
vet  box.  The  tunes  were  rag-time.  The  big  negro  patted 
w-ith  his  foot  as  he  ground  them  out.  .  .  .  Then  he  gave 
Sophy  a  ring,  and  Belinda  a  pointed  knife.  He  said : 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  491 

"This  is  the  black  knife  of  Lur;  it  cuts  through  all 
things." 

And  at  these  words,  Loring  broke  out  in  the  horrible 
cold  sweat  of  fear  that  only  a  dream  can  give. 

Then  everything  changed.  He  lay  in  the  midst  of  a 
frightful,  black,  catafalque-like  bed.  On  one  side  lay 
Sophy,  on  one  side  Belinda.  He  could  see  Belinda ;  but  try 
as  he  might  he  could  not  see  Sophy,  though  he  knew  that 
she  was  lying  at  his  other  side.  Belinda  was  leaning 
across  him  and  pressing  down  his  face  with  her  hand.  She 
was  laughing.  He  could  see  the  tip  of  her  tongue  between 
her  white  teeth  as  in  mischief.  She  looked  very  beautiful, 
but  wicked.  Her  white  breast  showed  through  little  petals 
of  red  flowers.  He  struggled  to  lift  his  head. 

' '  Where  is  the  black  knife  of  Lur  ? "  he  cried ;  and  as  he 
cried  it,  again  he  broke  into  a  sweat  of  fear.  Belinda 
laughed  more,  and  said: 

"It  is  there.    Look!" 

She  took  away  her  hand  from  his  face,  and  he  rose  on 
his  elbow,  and  turned  to  see  Sophy  lying,  white  and  still, 
with  the  handle  of  the  knife  protruding  from  her  breast. 
Belinda  was  saying : 

' '  Didn  't  I  do  it  well  ?    Not  a  drop  of  blood ! ' ' 

He  gave  a  choked  scream,  and  woke  sweating  and  trem 
bling  like  a  panic-stricken  horse. 


XLII 

THE  next  day  Loring  felt  unnerved  in  an  absurd  manner 
by  that  dream.  It  kept  coming  between  him  and  reality. 
Even  after  he  was  wide  awake,  the  remembered  voice  of 
the  huge  negro  saying:  "This  is  the  black  knife  of  Lur," 
gave  him  a  disagreeable  shiver.  The  mental  atmosphere 
of  the  house  did  not  tend  to  soothe  him.  At  breakfast 
Charlotte  was  icily  polite,  the  Judge  restrained  and  taci 
turn.  Sophy  did  not  come  down  till  after  ten.  She  sug 
gested  a  ride.  This  ride  also  was  very  trying  for  them 
both.  He  began  with  the  old  arguments.  She  answered 
with  a  sad  listlessness,  but  with  an  under  note  of  deter 
mination  which  made  him  feel  angry  and  discouraged. 
The  day  was  so  triumphantly  clear  after  the  great  wind 


492  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

of  yesterday  that  it  seemed  to  emphasize  their  inner 
gloom. 

After  luncheon  they  went  for  a  walk  together,  and  again 
they  had  "great  argument  about  it,  and  about."  They 
were  frightfully  unhappy,  and  one  as  determined  as  the 
other.  Yet  Belinda  would  keep  stealing  upon  Loring 's 
thought — the  Belinda  of  that  ridiculous,  odious  dream, 
with  her  white  breasts  peeping  through  red  petals  and  the 
tip  of  her  pretty  feline  tongue  between  her  teeth.  lie 
could  hear  her  saying:  "Didn't  I  do  it  well?  Not  a  drop 
of  blood!"  Damn  dreams,  anyway!  ...  As  if  a  man 
hadn't  enough  to  contend  with  by  day!  .  .  . 

About  tea-time  the  camping-party  returned  in  great 
spirits.  Bobby  came  whooping  in  to  his  mother's  study 
waving  a  big  branch  of  scarlet  berries.  lie  stopped  short 
at  sight  of  Loring.  A  sort  of  stiffening  went  through  him. 
Loring,  too,  stiffened.  Then  Bobby  came  forward.  They 
shook  hands  coldly,  more  like  two  men  than  a  man  and  a 
little  boy.  When  Bobby  went  out  again,  Loring,  looking1 
after  him,  said  bitterly : 

' '  There  goes  one  of  the  chief  causes  of  division  between 
us." 

' '  Never,  never  have  I  put  him  before  you  ! ' '  cried  Sophy, 
with  a  painful  flush.  "Be  just  to  me,  Morris;  at  least  be 
just  to  me." 

lie  said  sullenly: 

"You  didn't  need  to  'put  him.'  ...  he  was  always 
there." 

Sophy  parted  her  lips  to  deny  passionately,  then  closed 
them  again.  What  was  the  use?  They  must  not  come  to 
recriminating  each  other. 

"Oh,  Morris,"  she  pleaded,  a  moment  later,  "let's  be 
kind  to  each  other!  Let's  have  kindness  to  remem 
ber  .  .  ." 

He  gave  that  short,  ugly  laugh  of  his. 

"You  think  you're  being  kind,  eh?" 

Chesney  's  tone — almost  his  words  again  !  Sophy,  too, 
had  her  haunting  nightmare. 

The  third  day  Loring  decided  to  speak  with  Judge  Ma- 
con  "man  to  man."  He  asked  for  a  private  interview. 
The  Judge  gravely  ushered  him  into  his  sanctum.  As 
during  that  first  "serious  talk"  with  Sophy,  he  established 
himself  in  the  revolving-chair  before  his  desk.  Loriug  sat 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  493 

to  one  side.  He  was  pale  and  felt  abominably  nervous. 
The  Judge  looked  calm  and  non-committal.  He  waited  for 
Loring  to  begin. 

The  young  man  began  rather  unfortunately: 

"Sophy  tells  me  she's  confided  in  you  about  this  teapot 
tempest  of  ours,"  he  said.  "I  find  it's  devilish  hard  to  get 
a  woman  to  look  sensibly  at  such  things.  But  you're  a 
man,  Judge  ..." 

"Yes,"  admitted  the  Judge  imperturbably,  as  the  other 
paused. 

".  .  .  You're  a  man,"  Loring  continued.  "You  know 
that  these  ...  a  ...  little  lapses  will  occur  'in  the  best- 
regulated  households'  ..." 

The  Judge's  face  took  on  suddenly  the  expression  of  a 
Rhadamanthus. 

"May  I  ask  what  you  refer  to?"  he  said  starkly. 

Loring 's  smile  became  a  rather  foolish  grin. 

"Why  ...  a  ...  this  ...  a  ...  this— this  ...  Oh, 
hang  it  all,  Judge!  You've  surely  kissed  some  pretty 
woman  besides  your  wife  in  twenty  years  of  marriage ! ' ' 

He  was  rather  startled  by  the  effect  of  this  jocose  insin 
uation.  The  Judge  suddenly  stood  up.  Wrath  and  dis 
gust  transformed  his  kindly  face. 

"I  allow  no  liberties  from  any  man,"  he  said,  in  his 
deepest  bass. 

Loring,  also,  leaped  to  his  feet.  He  looked  genuinely 
dismayed  and  confounded. 

"But  .  .  .  but  ...  I  meant  no  liberty  .  .  ."  he  stam 
mered. 

"Then,"  said  the  Judge,  in  no  wise  placated,  "your 
idea  of  what  constitutes  a  liberty  differs  fundamentally 
from  mine." 

He  remained  standing. 

' '  Do  you  mean  to  say  .  .  .  ? "  fumbled  Loring. 

"I  mean  this,"  retorted  the  Judge:  "That  to  the  best 
of  my  poor  ability  I  strive  to  conduct  myself  according  to 
the  teaching  of  the  Christian  faith."  (The  Judge,  like 
Charlotte,  always  became  Johnsonian  when  righteously 
wrathful.)  "The  Founder  of  that  Faith  pronounced  once 
for  all  upon  the  question  that  you  refer  to  as  a  'little 
lapse.'  lie  said:  'He  that  looketh  upon  a  woman  to  lust 
after  her  hath  committed  adultery  with  her  already  in  his 
heart.'  " 


494  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

The  blood  beat  into  Loring's  face.  He  looked  away 
from  the  other's  contemptuous  eyes.  He  was  too  dum- 
founded  to  feel  resentful  at  the  moment.  Somehow  it 
never  occurred  to  him  to  doubt  the  Judge's  perfect  sin 
cerity,  lie  was  dumfounded  just  because  he  believed  in  it. 
Here  was  actually  a  man  who  looked  upon  strict  faithful 
ness  in  marriage  as  onerous  on  both  sexes. 

There  is  no  one  so  fiercely  chaste  as  the  Southerner  who 
believes  in  the  sanctity  of  marriage.  "Philandering"  is 
not  admitted  in  his  code.  lie  would  call  it  by  a  plainer 
and  a  coarser  name. 

"When  Loring  had  recovered  his  wits,  he  apologised  pro 
fusely  and  meekly.  But  the  interview  was  not  a  success. 
The  Judge  was  now  too  frankly  on  Sophy's  side  in  the 
matter.  He  thought  the  whole  situation  deeply  to  be  de 
plored,  but  he  gave,  as  his  judicial  opinion,  that  in  such 
cases  the  process  of  "patching  up"  was  never  suc 
cessful. 

Loring  left  the  study,  humiliated  and  downcast.  He 
realised  that  he  had  not  only  lost  Sophy's  love  but  the 
friendship  of  a  man  whom  he  really  valued.  Somehow, 
though  he  tried  to  jeer  at  the  Judge  for  a  narrow-minded 
old  fossil  who  had  never  known  the  true  fire  of  manhood, 
he  could  not  actually  do  so.  Something  in  him  knew 
that  the  old  Virginian  was  every  inch  a  man.  The 
strength  of  his  passions  was  apparent  in  his  dark,  power 
ful  face.  But  these  passions  had  been  curbed  by  a  prin 
ciple — an  ideal.  And,  drearily  enough,  Loring  began  to 
wonder  less  at  Sophy's  present  attitude.  It  \vas  from  the 
loins  of  men  like  this  that  she  had  sprung.  She  came  of  a 
race  that  required  chastity  in  husbands  as  well  as  in  wives. 
"What  made  it  all  so  overwhelming  was  that  Loring  knew 
well  that  he  "had  committed  adultery  already  in  his 
heart."  It  was  as  though  his  spirit  were  being  arraigned 
by  these  people.  That  he  had  only  kissed  a  woman  made 
no  difference  to  them.  To  them  it  was  adultery  in  the 
heart.  .  .  . 

"When  he  had  been  at  Sweet-Waters  a  week,  something 
happened  that  absolutely  staggered  him.  lie  felt,  when  he 
read  a  certain  item  in  a  letter  from  his  mother,  as  though 
he  had  received  a  violent  blow  in  the  midriff.  He  had  rid 
den  down  to  the  station  at  mail-time,  and  opened  this 


495 

letter  on  his  way  back.  The  portion  of  its  contents  that  so 
undid  him  ran  as  follows : 

"What  I  am  going  to  tell  you  now,  my  dear  boy,  is  a 
family  secret  as  yet.  Eleanor  is  delighted.  I  reserve  my 
opinion.  I  wish  to  hear  what  you  think  on  the  subject. 
Of  course,  from  a  worldly  standpoint  the  match  is  a  very 
brilliant  one  for  Belinda.  ..."  For  Belinda  f  .  .  .  Lor- 
ing  held  the  letter  nearer  his  eyes.  He  thought  that  he 
must  have  read  the  name  wrong.  His  mother 's  writing  was 
not  always  easy  to  read.  No.  It  was  plain  enough  this 
time.  The  word  was  "Belinda."  His  eyes  gulped  the 
following  pages.  ' '  She  seems  in  high  spirits — but  then  her 
spirits  are  always  high.  But  I  must  explain.  She  is  en 
gaged  to  Lewis  Cuthbridge.  He  was  in  your  set  at  Har 
vard,  he  tells  me.  He  is  certainly  what  people  would  call 
very  handsome,  and,  as  you  know,  the  Cuthbridges  are  ex 
tremely  rich.  But  I  don't  care  for  that  kind  of  good 
looks  myself.  He  is  too  red  and  white  and  black  for  a  man 
in  your  old  mother's  opinion.  I  like  a  more  distinguished 
type  .  .  ." 

"God!  Get  on  ...  get  on  ...  get  on!  .  .  ."  Loring 
was  raging  in  his  mind.  His  eyes  glanced  avidly  ahead. 
He  read:  "They  certainly  seem  very  much  in  love  with 
each  other.  Belinda,  I  think,  shows  all  her  feelings  far 
too  openly.  They  make  a  very  striking  couple.  But  haven't 
I  heard  that  Lewis  Cuthbridge  was  rather  '  wild '  ?  I  surely 
have  that  impression.  I  should  have  preferred  a  more  set 
tled  character  for  Belinda.  Some  one  of  mature  opinions 
— a  professional  man,  steady  in  his  habits  ..." 

"Get  on  ...  get  on  .  .  .  can't  you?  ..."  Loring 's 
thought  was  urging  angrily  again.  He  skipped  ahead. 

"...  What  gives  me  the  greatest  concern,  though,  is 
that  the  whole  affair  is  to  be  so  hurried.  They  are  to  be 
married  at  Christmas,  and  go  straight  to  India.  It  seems 
that  Belinda  is  very  anxious  to  see  the  East.  But  the  en 
gagement  will  not  be  announced  until  the  last  part  of  No 
vember.  I  am  most  anxious  to  talk  with  you  about  this 
young  man,"  ct  cetera,  et  cetera. 

Loring  crammed  the  letter  into  his  pocket.  The  glare  of 
the  sunlight  on  the  sheet  of  white  paper  had  set  reddish 
spots  dancing  before  his  eyes.  He  rode  on  in  a  wild  flare 
of  outraged  protest  for  half  a  mile,  the  horse  going  as  it 
willed,  at  a  lazy  walk.  Suddenly  it  snorted  and  leaped 


496  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

forward,  feeling  the  jab  of  spurs  in  its  sides.  It  ran  away 
indignantly  for  quite  a  mile.  Then  Loring  pulled  it  in, 
"  and  again  they  subsided  to  a  dawdling  foot  pace. 

The  spurs  had  been  jabbed  into  poor  Alert  because  Lor 
ing  had  suddenly  thought  of  Cuthbridge's  too  red  mouth 
under  its  too  black  moustache.  ...  Of  this  mouth  and  of 
Belinda's.  .  .  . 

''Engaged"!  .  .  .  The  little  devil!  ...  So  this  was  her 
\vay  of  paying  him  off!  ...  The  callous,  revengeful  little 
devil!  .  .  .  But  then  it  couldn't  be  allowed.  ...  He  knew 
too  much  about  Lewis  Cuthbridge  to  think  for  a  moment 
of  allowing  him  to  marry  one  of  the  women  of  his  family. 
.  .  .  Belinda  might  not  be  a  blood-relation,  but  that  made 
no  difference.  It  must  be  put  a  stop  to — at  once — at  once ! 
He  would  write  his  mother.  His  head  spun.  He  felt  as 
though  some  one  had  his  brain  in  a  sling  and  were  whirl 
ing  it  round  and  round. 

Wkeu  he  reached  the  house,  he  went  up  to  his  own 
room,  locked  the  door,  and,  dropping  into  a  chair,  pulled 
out  the  crushed  letter  and  read  it  over.  Then  he  jumped 
up  and  began  striding  to  and  fro  in  a  blind  fury.  The 
crash  of  a  chair  that  he  flung  out  of  his  way  startled  him 
into  self-realisation.  lie  recalled  Griffeth's  warning  after 
that  last  outbreak  in  Newport,  and  sat  down  again,  battling 
for  self-control.  And  boiling  up  in  him  with  his  wild  rage 
came  the  old,  mad  passion  for  the  girl.  Those  lips — those 
lips  that  he  had  made  his  own  at  such  cost ! — given  to  that 
low  blackguard !  .  .  .  Pah !  The  things  he  knew  of  the 
brute !  .  .  .  And  now  .  .  .  now.  .  .  .  Perhaps  at  this  very 
minute.  .  .  .  Oh,  he  understood  how  men  could  beat 
women!  .  .  .  He  could  have  dragged  Belinda  out  of  that 
hound 's  arms  by  the  hair  of  her  head — and  beaten  her  with 
his  fists!  .  .  .  He  remembered  Griffeth's  words  again,  and 
again  got  some  sort  of  hold  upon  himself.  .  .  . 

Morals  are  more  a  matter  of  geography  than  we  like  to 
admit.  Loring,  an  indifferent  member  of  Christianised  so 
ciety,  would  have  made  a  very  respectable  Mohammedan. 

He  withstood  for  two  days  the  gnawing,  racking  desire 
to  go  and  see  for  himself  just  "how  things  were."  Then 
he  gave  in.  He  told  Sophy  that  he  had  decided  to  go  away 
and  think  over  this  crisis  between  them  by  himself.  Sophy, 
who  had  also  heard  from  Mrs.  Loring  of  Belinda's  engage- 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  497 

ment,  understood  quite  well  why  he  was  leaving  so  sud 
denly.  Something  in  her  was  glad  and  sad  both  at  this 
knowledge.  "It  is  the  end,"  she  thought.  And  endings 
are  always  sad.  It  is  said  that  prisoners  of  many  years 
leave  their  cells  with  a  certain  regret.  Convalescents  often 
have  this  queer  nostalgia  on  quitting  the  sick-room.  Sophy 
had  known  far  more  sorrow  than  joy  in  her  marriage  with 
Loring,  and  yet  it  was  with  a  mysterious,  indescribable, 
contradictory  pain  that  she  held  up  her  cheek  for  his  fare 
well  kiss.  He  said  that  he  would  see  her  again  in  two  or 
three  weeks.  But  she  felt  utterly  sure  that  this  was  their 
final  parting.  Very  pale,  she  held  his  hand  in  both  hers. 

"I  wish  you  all  good  ...  all  good,  Morris,"  she  whis 
pered.  ' '  Whatever  comes  .  .  .  you  know  that,  don 't  you  ? ' ' 

"I  think  so  ...  yes.    I  know  it,"  he  said  unsteadily. 

The  carriage  was  waiting  for  him.  There  was  no  one 
else  about.  She  went  down  the  old  stone  steps  of  the  por 
tico,  and  stood  there  while  he  got  in.  She  was  not  going 
to  drive  to  the  station  with  him.  Neither  of  them  wanted 
to  say  good-by  in  public.  As  he  took  his  seat,  she  put  out 
her  hand  and  tucked  in  the  rug  which  had  slipped.  He 
caught  this  kind  hand  and  his  face  broke  into  a  shamed 
wretchedness.  One  of  the  horses  plunged  impatiently. 
Their  hands  were  torn  apart. 

As  he  drove  off  and  Sophy  was  left  standing  alone  in 
the  autumn  sunlight,  they  both  felt  as  those  in  old  times 
must  have  felt  when  the  sword  was  pulled  from  a  wound 
and  death  came  as  a  relief  with  the  gush  of  blood.  It  was 
like  death  in  many  ways,  this  parting;  but  it  was  also  an 
unspeakable  relief. 


XLIII 

LORING 's  mother  had  written  that  Belinda  was  now  with 
her  at  Nahant. 

He  arrived  there  late  the  next  day,  and  learned  that 
Lewis  Cuthbridge  was  stopping  in  the  neighbourhood  and 
was  expected  to  dinner.  He  did  not  see  Belinda  until  she 
came  down  to  the  drawing-room.  He  was  already  there 
alone  when  Cuthbridge  was  announced.  They  had  never 
liked  each  other.  Now,  instinct  turned  dislike  to  loathing. 
It  was  hard  for  them  to  be  ordinarily  civil.  But  while 


498  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

Loring 's  detestation  amounted  to  fury,  Cuthbridge  only 
thought  Loring  "a  sour,  ill-bred  cub."  He  was  by  several 
years  the  elder  of  the  two,  and  showed  it.  As  Mrs.  Loring 
had  said,  he  was  good-looking,  but  too  exuberantly  so.  He 
looked  almost  "made  up,"  with  his  white  forehead,  red 
lips,  shoe-black  hair,  and  eyes  of  a  dense,  swimming  blue. 
And  he  was  also  slightly  fat.  As  he  sat  there  with  crossed 
legs,  talking  to  Mrs.  Horton,  Loring  thought  the  way  that 
his  full,  pleasure-loving  thigh  filled  tight  the  sleek  black 
cloth  of  his  trousers  was  one  of  the  most  obnoxious  things 
he  had  ever  seen.  lie  hated  that  plump,  self-assured  thigh 
and  the  glossy  black  stripe  that  curved  along  it. 

Belinda  came  down  all  in  light  yellow,  with  a  scarf  of 
pale  green  about  her  shoulders.  She  wore  the  knot  of 
topazes  over  one  ear,  as  at  that  first  dance  in  Newport. 
When  she  saw  Loring,  she  said  "Hullo,  Morry!"  in  her 
coolest  voice. 

Cuthbridge  regarded  her  with  an  air  of  ownership  for 
which  Loring  itched  to  smash  him.  He  quoted,  waving,  a 
thick,  white  hand  with  too-polished  nails : 

1 '  '  Daffy-down-dilly   has   come   up   to   town 
In  a  yellow  petticoat  and  a  green  gown. '  ' ' 

Belinda  went  and  stood  before  him,  shaking  out  her 
yellow  petals. 

' '  D  'you  really  like  it,  Lewis  ?  Is  this  the  shade  of  green 
you  meant?" 

She  held  up  an  end  of  her  scarf.  She  was  very  charm 
ing  with  this  new  air  of  almost  docile  appeal.  Her  eyes 
said  that  it  mattered  oh,  so  much  to  her !  whether  Lewis 
found  her  scarf  the  right  shade  of  green  or  not.  He  came 
closer — took  the  thin  stuff  over  his  own  hand — held  it  up 
against  her  face. 

°"Yes.  That's  it,"  he  said  finally.  "It's  just  that  foli 
age  effect  I  wanted  to  get;  throws  out  your  hair  and  skin 
stunningly." 

When  Cuthbridge  alluded  to  Belinda's  "skin,"  Loring 
could  scarcely  keep  his  hands  off  him.  He  was  sick  with 
pent  rage.  He  sat  near  the  fire  pretending  to  look  at  the 
evening  paper.  He  could  see  them  quite  plainly — every 
gesture — without  raising  his  eyelids. 

Now   Belinda  had  her  hand   in   Cuthbridge 's  bulging. 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  499 

black-sleeved  arm.  She  was  cooing  to  him  as  she  used  to 
coo  to  Loririg: 

"And  where's  the  prize  I  was  promised  for  getting  my 
self  up  all  green-and-yellow,  like  a  bruise?" 

"Oh  .  .  .  you  mercenary  child!"  reproached  Cuth- 
bridge.  "Isn't  my  homage  reward  enough?" 

' '  Not  by  a  long  shot ! ' '  said  Belinda  ringingly.  ' '  You  've 
spoiled  me,  you  know,  Santa  ..."  She  broke  off,  and  ad 
dressed  Loring  over  her  shoulder:  "I  call  him  'Santa 
Glaus,'  Morry,  because  he's  always  bringing  me  such  bully 
presents. ' ' 

Loring  thought  of  the  lines  in  the  classic  rhyme  on  Santa 
Glaus : 

"...  A  little  round  belly, 
That  shook  when  he  laughed  like  a  bowlful  of  jelly." 

He  longed  to  quote  them.  But  he  held  on  to  himself. 
He  merely  said : 

"Most  engaging  pet-name,  I'm  sure  ..."  and  went  on 
with  his  paper. 

Belinda  was  already  coaxing  Cuthbridge  again. 

' '  Come,  now — fork  up  !  I  know  you  've  got  something 
for  me  hidden  away  in  some  pocket  or  other  ..." 

Cuthbridge  chuckled  knowingly.  This  fat,  pasha-like 
chuckle  almost  sent  Loring  bounding  from  his  seat. 

The  next  thing  he  heard  was  a  little  scream  of  delight 
from  Belinda: 

"Oh,  Santa!  .  .  .  You  dear  .  .  .  you  angel!  .  .  .  Oh, 
you  shall  have  a  prize  for  this!  .  .  .  Just  you  wait.  .  .  . 
Look,  mater!  Just  look  what  Lewis  has  brought  me  this 
time!" 

Morris  glanced  up  to  see  the  girl  whirling  about  with  a 
necklace  of  great  emeralds  looped  from  hand  to  hand.  The 
big,  translucent  stones  hung  like  threaded  coals  of  green 
fire  from  her  white  fingers.  She  danced  up  to  her  mother, 
then  to  Loring,  thrusting  the  jewels  under  their  noses. 

' '  Emeralds !  Emeralds ! ' '  she  sang.  "  I  'd  sell  my  soul 
for  emeralds!" 

"If  you  had  one  to  sell  ..."  said  Morris  under  his 
breath  to  her. 

She  didn't  seem  to  hear  him.  Dancing  back  to  Cuth 
bridge,  she  put  the  necklace  into  his  hands  again,  and 


500  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

turning  her  back  lowered  her  white  nape  and  cushion  of 
ruddy  hair  before  him. 

"Put  them  on  for  me,  Santa,"  she  said.  "I  must  feel 
them  on  me  ..." 

Loring  stifled  with  helpless  rage,  while  those  thick  white 
over-manicured  hands  fumbled  about  the  soft  throat  of 
Belinda.  Oh !  ...  But  just  wait  until  he  got  her  by  her 
self! 

Now  she  cried  out,  laughing : 

' '  Oooo  ...  oo !     How  cold  they  are ! ' ' 

Cuthbridge  said  low,  but  not  too  low  for  Loring  to  hear : 

"Ah  .  .  .  but  they'll  be  beautifully  warm  in  a  few  min 
utes!  .  .  ." 

His  voice  gloated.  So  did  his  hands  and  his  heavy, 
dense-blue  eyes.  lie  was  altogether  a  rather  unpleasantly 
"gloatful"  person,  as  a  lover.  Loring  quivered  with  wrath 
and  nausea.  He  would  have  liked  to  tear  Cuthbridge 
"from  the  scabbard  of  his  limbs." 

"Dinner  is  served,"  said  the  old  butler. 

It  was  not  until  the  next  day  at  tea-time  that  Loring  got 
a  chance  to  see  Belinda  alone.  lie  came  in  just  as  she  and 
her  mother  also  returned  from  a  drive.  "I  must  go  up 
to  have  tea  with  Grace,"  said  Mrs.  Horton.  "You  give 
Morry  his  tea,  Linda." 

"All  right-o!"  said  Belinda  cheerfully.  She  was  her 
most  glittering  self.  Hair,  eyes,  brilliant  skin  and  teeth — 
all  were  shimmering,  as  though  she  gave  forth  a  transpar 
ent,  throbbing  glow  like  a  landscape  in  the  summer  sun. 
She  was  all  in  green  to-day,  a  vivid,  bright  green  cloth 
that  sheathed  her  closely.  Her  shining,  ruddy  head  rose 
from  the  rich  bitumen-black  of  costly  furs.  One  of  the 
many  gifts  of  her  Santa  Glaus — Loring  guessed.  He 
longed  to  snatch  them  from  her  throat  and  chuck  them 
into  the  fire. 

"Don't  wonder  you  stare,  old  boy,"  said  she,  with  her 
gayest  grin.  "I  know  I  look  a  Katydid  in  all  this  green — 
but  Lewis  is  just  dotty  about  my  wearing  green  ..." 

Mrs.  Horton  had  left  the  room.  Loring  looked  at  her, 
narrowing  his  lids. 

"You  little  light-o'-love  .  .  ."  he  said,  in  a  low,  level 
voice. 

"Oh,  tut-tut-tut ! "  said  Belinda,  with  grieved  reproof. 
"  'Sich  langwidge'  for  a  tea-party!" 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  501 

".  .  .  Little  heartless  wanton  ..."  Loring  continued, 
in  the  same  voice.  "Mercenary,  too  .  .  .  like  all  your 
kind.  .  .  .  Even  he  .  .  .  that  fat  louse !  .  .  .  called  you 
mercenary  ..." 

"Really  ...  I  shall  have  to  put  disinfectant  in  your 
tea  instead  of  cream,"  mocked  Belinda. 

Then  he  pounced  on  her.  He  caught  her  by  both  wrists 
and  jerked  her  to  her  feet  before  him,  almost  upsetting 
the  tea-things. 

"Answer  me  .  .  ."  he  said.  "Has  that  brute  kissed 
you?" 

"Yes,  dear,"  said  Belinda,  eyeing  him  calmly;  but  the 
garnet  sparkles  were  in  her  eyes. 

"You  .  .  .!"  He  choked,  controlled  himself.  "On  the 
mouth?"  he  asked  huskily. 

"Oh,  yes,  dear!"  said  Belinda,  and  she  laughed.  His 
gaunt,  furious  face  filled  her  with  fierce  joy.  He  was  pay 
ing — paying — paying.  Drop  by  drop  she  would  wring 
from  him  all  that  he  owed  her.  She  had  never  enjoyed 
anything  more  in  her  fierce,  wilful  little  life — not  even 
Loring 's  kisses — than  she  enjoyed  lying  to  him  now.  For 
she  was  lying  when  she  said  that  Cuthbridge  had  kissed  her 
on  her  lips — at  least,  in  the  way  that  Morris  meant.  Per 
haps  one  of  her  chief  charms  for  the  satiated  young  roue 
to  whom  she  was  engaged  was  her  Cossack-maiden  sav 
agery  of  reluctance  in  matters  of  pre-marital  love-making. 
But  she  chose  that  Morris  should  think  that  another  man 
with  the  right  to  do  it  had  kissed  her  as  he  had  once  kissed 
her,  with  no  right  but  what  her  own  love  had  given  him. 

He  stood  now,  looking  at  her,  his  face  inflamed  with  the 
strange  fever  of  mingled  hatred  and  desire.  "Faugh!" 
he  said  at  last,  turning  from  her  as  from  something  sick 
ening. 

She  laughed  again,  and  began  calmly  selecting  four  of 
the  largest  lumps  of  sugar  for  her  tea.  As  she  did  so,  she 
hummed  an  air  from  the  latest  musical  comedy.  Oh,  she 
had  him!  She  had  him  "where  she  wanted  him."  He 
might  rage  round  the  arena  of  circumstance  like  an  infuri 
ated  young  bull.  She  was  the  Matadora  who  knew  how  to 
tame  him. 

He  was  back  again  in  a  moment  or  two.  The  red  gleam 
of  her  cloak  of  insolence  maddened  and  attracted  him  at 
the  same  time — just  as  a  real  Matador 's  cloak  maddens  and 


502  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

charms  a  real  bull.     He  stood  over  her,  hands  in  pockets, 
"to  keep  from  wringing  her  neck,"  he  told  himself. 

"Look  here,"  he  said.  "I  suppose  you  mean  me  to  be 
lieve  you  love  that  bounder  ? ' ' 

"Why  no What  d'you  take  me  for?"  she  said,  a 

lump  of  sugar  in  one  cheek.    She  crunched  down  on  it  con 
tentedly  with  the  last  words. 

"Better  not  ask  what  I  take  you  for,"  said  Loring 
hotly.  "You're  a  cool  hand,  Linda;  but  I  don't  think 
you'd  stay  cool  if  I  formulated  my  opinion  of  you." 

"And  I  wonder  if  you'd  stay  at  all  if  I  gave  my  opinion 
of  you'?"  asked  she,  grinning. 

Loring  clenched  his  hands  that  he  still  kept  in  his 
pockets. 

"Do  you  mean  to  tell  me,"  he  said,  "that  you're  going 
to  marry  this  brute  without  loving  him?" 

"Oh,  well  .  .  .  Marriage  'makes  the  heart  grow  fonder,' 
they  say, ' '  she  retorted  easily. 

"Good  God!  .  .  .  How  dare  you  say  such  things  to  me 
.  .  .  to  me?"  burst  out  Loring  furiously. 

"And  why  not  'to  you  .  .  .  to  you'?"  she  mimicked. 

She  slid  suddenly  from  the  edge  of  the  table  on  which 
she  had  been  perched,  and  went  up  close  in  front  of  him. 
The  garnet  fire  blazed  in  her  eyes  now.  Her  black  brows 
were  drawrn  down  close  over  them. 

"See  here,  Morry,"  she  said.  "I'll  give  you  a  straight 
tip:  You  can't  play  dog-in-the-manger  with  me.  You  can 
behave  decently  to  me  or  ...  clear  out ! ' ' 

It  was  Loring 's  turn  to  laugh. 

"  'Clear  out'?"  he  exclaimed.  "Well,  of  all  the  cool 
minxes! — 'Clear  out'  did  you  say?  .  .  .  from  my  own 
mother's  house?  ...  I'd  like  to  know  how  you  mean  to 
accomplish  it?" 

Belinda  gave  him  a  look  of  supreme  and  contemptuous 
insolence. 

"I'll  tell  Lewis  the  truth  about  you,"  said  she. 

Then  Loring  "saw  red."  Without  a  word,  he  seized 
her  in  his  arms. 

"Aren't  you  afraid  to  say  such  things  to  me?"  he  de 
manded  thickly.  "Aren't  you  afraid  .  .  .?" 

"No,"  said  Belinda.  But  just  for  a  second  she  was 
afraid.  There  had  been  such  a  gleam  of  dementia  in  his 
eyes. 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  503 

"Yes,  you  are  afraid,"  he  said,  still  holding  her  fast. 
"Little  devil  .  .  .  you  are  afraid.  .  .  .  And  you  need  be 
.  .  .  you  need  be  ..."  He  laughed  cruelly.  "If  I  were 
an  Oriental, ' '  he  went  on,  "  I  'd  cut  off  your  lips  for  having 
let  another  man  touch  them  ..."  His  face  suffused  sud 
denly.  He  bent  it  down  over  hers.  "Give  them  to  me  all 
the  same  .  .  ."he  muttered.  "Give  me  your  lips,  Linda. 
They're  mine.  ..." 

For  answer,  she  pressed  them  inward  until  they  were 
only  a  thin  mark  in  her  face.  Her  eyes  glittered  up  at 
him,  defiant,  rebellious,  fiercely  mocking. 

The  passion  ebbed  gradually  from  his  own  face.  As  he 
still  held  her,  and  she  still  continued  to  keep  her  full  lips 
turned  inward,  he  broke  into  a  helpless,  unwilling  laugh. 
' '  Of  all  the  little  brutes  .  .  . "  he  muttered  unsteadily.  At 
last  he  let  her  go.  She  backed  away  from  him,  then  her 
lips  curled  free  again,  redder  for  their  imprisonment.  She 
smiled  with  impish  delight  at  the  success  of  her  simple 
device. 

"And  yet  women  say  they've  been  kissed  against  their 
wills!"  she  gurgled  gleefully.  "We  are  liars  ...  we 
women,  Morry,  dear ! ' ' 

Something  in  her  tone  gave  him  a  queer  hope.  He  went 
up  to  her  again.  He  said  in  a  voice  that  trembled  a  little : 

"Have  you  lied  to  me,  Linda?  .  .  .  Was  it  a  lie  when 
you  told  me  that  beast  had  kissed  you?  .  .  .  Had  kissed 
your  mouth  ? ' ' 

Belinda  certainly  had  inspirations.  She  looked  at  him 
with  her  most  melting  yet  most  wayward  look.  Her  dim 
ples  flickered. 

"Well  ...  I  guess  he  didn't  enjoy  the  sort  of  kisses  he 
did  get,"  she  murmured. 

"Linda  ..."  whispered  Loring.     "Linda  ..." 

The  sudden  revulsion  of  mood  made  him  dizzy. 

"Oh  .  .  .  Linda,"  he  repeated,  and,  putting  out  his 
arms,  drew  her  to  him  again. 

But  she  was  quite  serious  now.  Frowning  a  little,  and 
swayed  back  stiffly  in  his  grasp,  she  said : 

"See  here,  Morry — you've  called  me  some  hard  names. 
But  I'll  let  that  pass.  I  can  understand  that.  What  I 
can't  understand,  and  what  I  won't  let  pass  is  your  try 
ing  to  keep  me  and  your  wife  at  the  same  time.  I  won 't  lie 
any  more Yes  ...  I  did  lie  just  now.  It  did  me 


504  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

good  all  over,  too ! ' '  And  she  showed  her  white  teeth  in  a 
rather  fierce  little  smile.  "But  I  won't  lie  any  more.  I 
don't  love  Lewis  Cuthbridge — I  rather  loathe  him  .  .  .  but 
as  sure  as  I  live  ...  as  we  both  live  .  .  .  unless  you  break 
free  .  .  .  unless  you  get  that  divorce,  or  let  her  divorce 
.  .  .  I '11  marry  Lewis  within  two  months.  Mind  you  .  .  ." 
she  added,  as  she  felt  his  arms  tighten  convulsively,  "I'm 
not  lying  ...  I  mean  it." 

Loring's  face  looked  drawn  and  curiously  hunted. 

As  she  spoke,  his  eyes  followed  the  movements  of  her  full, 
soft  lips.  They  curled  into  such  lovely  curves  when  she 
talked — now  hiding  her  little  fine,  white  lower  teeth,  now 
revealing  them. 

"And  if  I  say  I'll  do  it  ...  then  .  .  .  will  you  kiss 
me?"  he  whispered. 

A  wild  thrill  sang  through  Belinda.  Her  arms,  which 
had  been  hanging  at  her  sides,  whipped  round  him.  She 
strained  him  to  her. 

' '  If  you  '11  swear  it  ...  I  will, ' '  she  whispered  back. 

"And  .  .  .  and  .  .  .  you'll  .  .  .  give  yourself  to  me 
.  .  .  you  '11  chuck  that  brute  ...  at  once  ? ' ' 

Respectability,  the  only  chaperon  that  ever  influenced 
Belinda,  warned  sharply.  She  relaxed  her  hold  of  him  a 
little.  Her  voice  took  a  keener  note. 

' '  D  'you  mean  .  .  .  will  I  marry  you  when  you  're  free  ? ' ' 

Loring  paled,  then  the  blood  rushed  to  his  face  again. 

"Yes  .  .  .  damn  it  ...  I  mean  that,"  he  said. 

She  eyed  him  for  a  few  seconds  narrowly.  Then  she 
said: 

"You  swear  it?" 

"I  swear  it,"  he  muttered. 

"On  your  honour?" 

"Yes  ...  on  what's  left  of  it." 

Belinda  stretched  upwards  against  him,  like  a  luxurious 
young  puma,  relaxing  to  pleasure  after  a  long  strain  of 
crouching  watchfulness. 

"Ah  .  .  .  Morry  ..."  she  sighed,  and  she  held  up  to 
his  her  parted,  vaguely  smiling  lips. 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  505 


XLIV 

BUT  that  kiss-sealed  oath  to  Belinda  did  not  keep  Loring 
from  "going  two  ways"  in  his  heart,  for  some  time  still. 
He  was  truly  between  two  fires.  He  could  not  bear  to  let 
Sophy  go  in  order  to  keep  Belinda.  It  was  unendurable 
to  think  of  relinquishing  Belinda  that  he  might  keep  Sophy. 
In  the  end,  however,  Belinda  won.  When  it  came  to  the 
final  test,  he  found  that  he  could  more  easily  let  Sophy  slip 
from  him  into  a  vague  future  than  resign  Belinda  to  the 
fat  arms  of  Lewis  Cuthbridge.  And  he  suffered.  For  the 
best  in  him  clung  to  Sophy,  and  he  knew  that  it  was  with 
his  best  that  he  clung  to  her. 

Belinda  saw  this  inward  struggle  quite  plainly.  She  re 
mained  calm  in  presence  of  it.  Propinquity  was  her 
staunch  ally.  Besides,  she  had  refused  to  break  her  en 
gagement  with  Cuthbridge,  until  Morris  could  assure  her — 
could  let  her  see  "with  her  own  eyes" — that  a  divorce  be 
tween  him  and  Sophy  had  been  decided  upon  past  recall. 

By  the  middle  of  December  he  was  able  to  satisfy  her  in 
this  respect.  As  soon  as  she  was  convinced  that  matters 
had  reached  an  irrevocable  point,  she  broke  her  engage 
ment  as  she  had  promised.  Then  she  set  herself  to  blot  out 
all  possible  regret  on  Loring 's  part.  For  this  role  nature 
had  consummately  endowed  her.  Loring 's  heart  had  no 
chance  to  ache.  His  frantic  passion  filled  every  crevice  of 
his  consciousness.  Memories,  doubts,  regrets — all  went 
scurrying  before  it,  like  wild  things  before  the  onrush  of  a 
prairie  fire. 

As  "Venus  Victrix, "  Belinda  was  quite  wonderful.  Yet 
though  she  was  now  wholly  Venus  and  triumphant,  she 
still  kept  homespun  Respectability  at  her  elbow.  Not  a 
hair  's-breadth  too  far  did  she  permit  her  inflammable  lover 
to  venture.  Belinda  as  Goddess  would  have  compelled  all 
Olympus  to  address  her  as  Mrs.  Vulcan. 

And  so,  towards  the  end  of  December,  Sophy  left  Bobby 
in  the  care  of  Charlotte  and  Harold  Grey,  and  went  to  deso 
late,  far-western  Ontowega.  After  six  months  of  that 
desolation  she  would  be  free  again.  It  seemed  incredible. 
She  did  not  go  alone,  however.  Susan  Pickett,  a  second 


506  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

cousin  of  whom  she  and  Charlotte  had  been  very  fond 
since  childhood,  went  with  her.  Miss  Pickett  was  a  de 
lightful  spinster  of  fifty.  She  had  not  married,  simply  be 
cause  she  had  never  loved  a  man  enough  to  want  to  marry 
him. 

No  one  ever  called  Susan  Pickett  "Cousin  Susan"  or 
"Aunt  Susan."  She  was  "Sue"  to  all  who  loved  her, 
young  as  well  as  old.  She  was  a  tall,  vigorous  woman, 
deep-breasted,  and  of  perfect  health.  Her  thick,  brown 
eyebrows  were  masculine,  her  large,  well-shaped  mouth 
feminine.  Her  eyes,  deep-set,  grey,  and  humorous,  might 
have  been  either  a  maiv's  or  a  woman's.  Eyes  of  this  type 
—when  they  are  kindly  affectionate,  as  in  Sue  Pickett 's 
case,  are  the  sign  of  a  big,  impersonal  humanity.  It  was 
never  necessary  to  have  Sue  "on  one's  mind"  even  for  a 
moment.  She  was  always  occupied  in  some  way,  and  al 
ways  serenely  content.  This  is  why  Sophy  ventured  to  ask 
her  to  share  with  her  for  six  months  the  abomination  of 
desolation  called  on  the  map  of  the  United  States  Onto- 
wega. 

During  the  first  stages  of  the  long,  tiresome  journey 
Sophy  was  conscious  only  of  a  heavy,  dull  weight  of  de 
termination  and  fiat  sadness.  She  hated  the  smell  of  train- 
smoke.  Now  it  seemed  as  if  this  rank,  clogging  smoke 
trailed  over  the  whole  landscape  of  her  life,  past  and  fu 
ture.  She  sat  drearily,  hour  after  hour,  watching  the  tele 
graph  poles  snatch  up  the  sagging  wires  as  they  flew  past. 
The  threads  of  her  own  life  were  like  that,  she  thought — 
dark  strands  strung  from  one  bare  pole  of  fact  to  another, 
endlessly,  monotonously.  The  bare  poles  had  once  been 
trees — living,  joyous  things.  So  had  the  bare  facts  of  her 
life.  Now  lopped,  stripped,  rigid,  they  hemmed  her  in, 
guiding  the  thread  of  her  destiny  to  some  dull,  conven 
tional  end — some  mechanical  fixture  in  a  bleak  station  to 
which  this  hard,  beaten  road  of  divorce  was  leading. 

After  certain  matters  at  Ontowega  had  been  settled,  they 
found  that  they  could  go  to  the  Black  Hills  of  Dakota  with 
out  disturbing  the  course  of  events.  They  both  loved  rid 
ing.  The  lawyer  told  them  that  there  was  capital  riding 
about  the  Black  Hills.  The  place  he  suggested  was  called 
Bear  Spring. 

The  world  without  lay  in  great  curving  swathes  of  white, 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  507 

pricked  out  by  green-black  pines  as  in  an  old  Japanese 
print. 

On  the  third  day  came  a  bundle  of  letters  forwarded 
from  Ontowega.  The  two  that  Sophy  kept  for  the  last 
were  from  Bobby  and  Amaldi.  How  strange  it  seemed  to 
see  the  Italian  stamp  in  the  snowy  wilderness  of  Bear 
Spring!  And  that  seal  with  its  arms  and  motto — "Che 
prendo — tengo"  ...  In  a  flash  there  rose  the  memory  of 
the  struggle  between  Loring  and  Belinda  for  Amaldi 's 
ring.  .  .  .  How  things  could  hurt  one  .  .  .  things  like  the 
impression  of  a  seal.  Then  she  opened  Bobby's  letter.  At 
the  top  was  written,  ' '  I  did  not  let  Mr.  Grey  see  this  letter. 
So  please  to  excuse  mistakes.  R.  C.  C."  Among  other 
things  it  said : 

"Mother,  since  you  went  away,  I  have  decided  a  impor 
tant  thing.  I  have  decided  to  be  an  Author — like  you  are. 
I  send  you  a  poim.  It  is  called  '  Plantagenet. '  Mr.  Grey 
does  not  think  my  best  is  poertry.  He  likes  the  best  what 
I  wrote  about  '  A  grey  day. '  Please  tell  me  which  you  like 
best.  It  is  most  important,  as  I  must  decide  as  soon  as 
possible  if  I  will  be  a  statesman  or  a  poit. — A  author  any 
how." 

' '  Plantagenet ' '  began  as  follows : 

' '  Kichard  of  England,  monarch  brave, 
Bold  as  the  lion  that  haunts  the  cave, 
Wielding  thy  battle-axe  with  a  crash, 
As  into  the  foe  thou  dost  boldly  dash ! ' ' 

"Oh,  my  darling  little  'poit'!"  murmured  Sophy,  as 
she  read.  But  she  did  not  think,  from  "Plantagenet,"  that 
Bobby  would  ever  really  be  a  "poit."  The  "Grey  Day," 
however,  was  another  thing.  Sophy  had  a  queer  feeling 
about  her  heart  as  she  read  that. 

"The  day  is  very  still.  It  is  grey  and  tired.  It  seems 
old  as  if  the  sun  had  risen  a  long  time  ago,  and  it  is  too 
tired  to  go  on.  It  seems  standing  there  before  me  so  tired. 
The  clouds  hang  in  the  air  very  still.  The  grey  light 
creeps  into  the  house,  and  the  house  is  still  like  the  day. 
All  is  still  and  grey,  even  my  thoughts.  Only  the  clock 
moves,  and  the  fire.  Only  the  fire  shines  in  the  greyness. 
I  do  not  know  why  it  makes  me  so  sad  to  see  the  red  of  the 
fire  in  the  greyness ;  I  do  not  know  why  it  is  such  a  sorrow 
ful  thing  to  hear  the  clock  ticking  very  slowly,  or  why  the 


508  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

rustle  of  the  fire  makes  me  know  I  am  lonely.  If  my  dear 
mother  was  with  me  she  could  interprit  it  to  me  like 
dreams  in  the  bible.  But  then  if  my  mother  was  with  me, 
I  think  this  grey  day  would  seem  shining.  I  think  the 
still  would  only  be  quiitness  if  my  mother  was  with  me." 

As  Sophy  read  these  last  words  she  raised  them  to  her 
lips.  It  seemed  to  her  that  Bobby  need  not  fear  about 
becoming  "a  author  anyhow."  She  could  not  think  that 
it  was  only  mother-love  that  made  "A  Grey  Day"  seem 
unusual  to  her. 

Then  she  opened  Amaldi's  letter.  Here,  too,  was  an  un 
expected  pleasure.  She  had  found  his  letters  charming 
from  the  first,  but  in  this  one  it  was  as  if  he  had  put  aside 
a  certain  reserve  that  she  had  always  noticed  before.  He 
might  have  been  talking  to  her  over  a  log  fire  at  Le 
Vigne —  Or,  no,  she  corrected  herself  with  a  smile — 
never  had  Amaldi  "talked"  to  her  with  the  ease,  the  ful 
ness,  the  alternate  gaiety  and  depth  with  which  he  wrote 
to  her  in  this  long,  delightful  letter.  She  sat  holding  it 
in  her  hand  when  she  had  finished  reading  it,  trying  to 
recall  clearly  his  dark,  irregular  face  and  olive  eyes — the 
sound  of  his  voice.  And  she  smiled  again,  thinking  of  the 
Corinthians'  opinion  of  Paul:  "...  His  letters,  say  they, 
are  weighty  and  powerful ;  .  .  .  but  his  speech  is  con 
temptible."  "Dear  Amaldi  ..."  she  thought,  still  smil 
ing.  "I  wonder  how  it  is  that  you  are  such  a  silent  man 
as  a  rule,  and  yet  can  write  such  perfectly  adorable  let 
ters?" 

She  put  his  letter  with  Bobby 's  and  laid  them  both  away. 
For  a  long  time  she  stood  at  her  bedroom  window  looking 
out  over  the  snowy  wilds  towards  the  sunset.  The  after 
glow  burned  red  through  the  inky  pines.  The  snow  shone 
a  queer,  witch-like  blue  in  the  twilight.  Sophy  saw  it  all 
without  seeing.  She  was  thinking  that  there  were  beauti 
ful  things  in  her  life  still  .  .  .  that  she  ought  to  be  very 
grateful  .  .  .  that  after  a  while  she  ought  even  to  be 
happy  in  them.  .  .  . 

But  as  she  gazed  at  the  smouldering  watchfires  of  the 
west,  Bobby's  words  came  back  to  her:  "I  do  not  know 
why  it  makes  me  so  sad  to  see  the  red  of  the  fire  in  the 
greyness.  ..." 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  509 


XLV 

SOPHY  told  Miss  Pickett  all  about  Amaldi.  Sometimes 
she  would  read  her  extracts  from  his  letters  when  they 
were  unusually  delightful. 

One  day,  towards  spring,  when  Sophy  had  been  thus 
reading  to  her,  she  said  thoughtfully: 

"Sophy,  child — you  aren't  afraid  of  preparing  a  new 
unhappiness  for  yourself?" 

Sophy  laughed  out. 

"Oh,  Sue,"  she  cried,  "that's  the  first  old-maidish  thing 
I  ever  heard  you  say!" 

"Old  maids  are  very  wise  sometimes,"  returned  Miss 
Pickett  calmly.  "The  Delphian  Oracle  was  an  old  maid 
as  far  as  I  can  make  out." 

Sophy  said  in  a  disappointed  voice: 

"Sue  .  .  .  don't  you  believe  in  friendship  between  men 
and  women?" 

' '  I  certainly  do.  No  one  has  stauncher  men  friends  than 
I  have." 

' '  Then  why  on  earth  don 't  you  think  I  can  have  them  ? ' ' 

Miss  Pickett  twinkled. 

"  'Twasn't  a  question  of  them,"  she  said  demurely. 
"There's  safety  in  numbers.  I  was  referring  to  this  par 
ticular  one. ' ' 

Sophy  said  reproachfully : 

"Sue  ...  do  you  really  think  I'm  the  sort  of  woman 
to  flirt  with  a  man  on  paper,  while  I  'm  getting  a  divorce  ? ' ' 

Miss  Pickett,  still  quite  calm,  replied: 

"No,  honey,  you  know  I  don't  think  so." 

"Then  what  do  you  think?"  demanded  Sophy,  beginning 
to  bristle  a  little. 

' '  I  think, ' '  said  her  cousin,  putting  down  her  embroidery 
on  her  lap  for  a  moment,  and  looking  quizzical  but  pro 
found,  "that  sometimes  congeniality  is  more  dangerous 
than  passion." 

Sophy  returned  her  look  a  little  loftily. 

"Dear  Sue,"  said  she,  "haven't  you  really  taken  in  that 
all  that  side  of  me  is  dead  .  .  .  quite  dead?" 

"No  .  .  .  'playing  'possum,'  "  flashed  Miss  Pickett. 

"Oh,  have  your  little  joke  by  all  means,"  said  Sophy, 
smiling.  "But  after  all  it's  'my  funeral'  as  they  say  out 


510  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

here.  ...  I  suppose  the  corpse  knows  better  than  any  one 
else  whether  it 's  dead  or  not. ' ' 

"On  the  contrary — the  corpse  doesn't  know  anything 
whatever  about  it,"  said  her  cousin.  "If  you  were  really  a 
corpse,  my  lamb,  you  wouldn't  know  it." 

Sophy  looked  almost  hurt. 

"Won't  you  allow  me  to  know  about  my  own  nature, 
Sue  ? ' '  she  asked. 

Now  Miss  Pickett  smiled. 

"Nature,"  said  she,  "is  as  fond  of  revivals  as  a  nigger." 

On  a  hot,  gusty,  dusty  day  in  summer,  having  returned 
to  Ontowega,  they  set  forth  with  the  lawyer  to  go  before 
the  Judge  who  was  to  give  Sophy  a  decree  of  divorce.  The 
little  town  looked  more  hideous  than  ever  in  the  glare  of 
summer.  Such  trees  as  grew  along  the  board  sidewalks 
were  grey  with  dust.  The  pettish  wind  flung  handfuls  of 
grit  into  their  eyes  and  nostrils.  Sophy  followed  Mr.  Dain- 
ton's  tall,  scraggy  figure  like  a  hypnotised  "subject."  She 
had  but  to  follow  that  round-shouldered,  obstinate  looking 
back  into  the  yellow-brick  square  of  the  "Town  Hall"  that 
loomed  just  ahead,  and  she  would  be  free.  That  lank, 
black  figure  with  its  ravel  of  grey  locks  escaping  from 
under  a  black  "wide-awake"  was  the  Nike  that  led  on  to 
Freedom. 

Emerald  Dainton,  the  lawyer's  little  nine-year-old 
daughter,  skipped  at  Sophy's  side,  clinging  tightly  to  her 
cold,  gloveless  hand — for  Sophy's  hands  were  very  cold 
though  the  thermometer  stood  at  85  degrees.  Emerald 
had  a  "mash"  on  "pa's  last  divorce  lady."  That  is  what 
Emerald  called  Sophy  in  her  thought.  She  was  a  shrewdly 
intelligent  child,  not  unattractive,  with  the  most  penetrat 
ing  green-hazel  eyes  that  Sophy  had  ever  seen.  She  shrank 
from  these  eyes,  when  they  fixed  consideringly  on  her  face. 
She  could  feel  Emerald  wondering  how  and  why  she  had 
come  to  Ontowega  as  "pa's"  client.  She  had  an  insane 
impulse  every  now  and  then  to  ask  the  child  her  views  on 
divorce.  She  was  sure  that  she  held  views  on  the  subject 
and  that  they  would  be  crisp  and  to  the  point. 

They  entered  the  Court  House,  and  Mr.  Dainton  showed 
the  ladies  into  a  dingy  room  on  the  left.  Emerald  skipped 
in  also  as  a  matter  of  course.  There  were  some  plain 
wooden  chairs,  a  table,  a  stove,  and  in  one  corner  behind 
the  stove  a  horsehair  sofa. 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  511 

From  one  of  the  wooden  chairs  rose  a  mealy  tinted  but 
clever  looking  man  of  about  forty.  Mr.  Dainton  "pre 
sented"  him  as  Mr.  Wogram.  He  was  Loring 's  represen 
tative.  Mr.  Dainton  then  excused  himself  for  a  moment. 
He  returned  shortly  to  say  that  Judge  Boiler  was  just 
about  to  dismiss  a  case  in  the  Court  Room,  and  would  be 
with  them  in  a  few  moments. 

A  desultory  conversation  on  politics  then  began  between 
Mr.  Wogram  and  Mr.  Dainton.  Sue  and  Sophy  sat  silently 
side  by  side  on  two  of  the  wooden  chairs.  Sue  had  put  one 
of  her  hands  on  Sophy's  and  was  gripping  it  tighter  than 
she  knew.  Emerald  had  retired  to  the  horsehair  sofa  be 
hind  the  stove. 

There  was  a  maple  tree  just  outside  of  the  window.  An 
opening  in  its  twigs  and  leaves  made  a  ridiculous  profile 
against  the  white-blue  dazzling  sky.  Sophy  gazed  at  this 
profile,  until  when  she  looked  away  she  saw  it  swimming 
in  green  and  red  on  the  whitewashed  walls.  She  thought 
in  odds  and  ends.  Then  Judge  Boiler  entered  and  was 
introduced.  He  sat  down  finally  before  the  bare  table  and 
assumed  his  air  of  office.  He  was  a  heavy,  impassive  look 
ing  man  of  fifty  with  a  pale,  dyspeptic  skin,  pale  blue  eyes 
and  thick  whitey-brown  hair  going  grey. 

Just  as  proceedings  were  about  to  open,  Sophy  noticed 
Emerald's  little  many-buttoned  boots  and  red  stockings 
protruding  from  behind  the  stove.  She  looked  at  Dainton 
and  the  blood  swept  over  her  face. 

"Excuse  me  for  interrupting  .  .  .  but  your  little  girl 
is  still  in  the  room,  Mr.  Dainton,"  she  said. 

The  lawyer  jumped  up  and  drew  a  protesting  Emerald 
from  her  horsehair  coign  of  vantage. 

"Please,  pa  ...  lemme  stay!"  she  whined.  "I  might 
have  to  get  divorced  some  time.  I  want  to  see  how  you  fix 
it  up.  Please,  pa!" 

Mr.  Dainton  whispered  fiercely  that  he'd  "smack  her  if 
she  didn't  shut  up  that  minute."  Father  and  daughter 
disappeared  into  another  room.  Then  the  father  reap 
peared  alone,  and  the  case  of  Loring  v.  Loring  pro 
ceeded.  .  .  . 

When  it  was  all  over  and  Mr.  Wogram  had  taken  his 
leave  with  jerky  bows  to  friend  and  foe  alike,  Mr.  Dainton 
turned  to  Sophy,  with  a  curious  reminiscence  of  the  face 
tious  manner  in  which  one  addresses  brides,  and  said : 


512  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

"  Allow  me  to  congratulate  you  .  .  .  Mrs.  Chesney!" 

Judge  Boiler  did  likewise. 

Sophy  had  one  dreadful  moment  of  fear,  regret,  grief, 
distaste — the  awful  vertigo  of  the  irrevocable.  She  tried 
to  smile  conventionally.  Sue  slipped  an  arm  through  hers, 
held  her  close  without  seeming  to  do  so,  and  talked  for  her 
— nice,  easy,  well-sounding  commonplaces.  While  she  was 
thus  talking,  Mr.  Dainton  stalked  to  the  inner  door  and, 
flinging  it  open,  called  jocosely: 

"Come  along  in,  Maldy.    The  knot's  untied.  ..." 

Emerald  sidled  in,  looking  sulky  but  curious.     She  eyed 
Sophy  a  moment,  then  said  in  a  loud  whisper : 
'  Is  she  really  divorced  ? ' ' 
'Sure  thing,"  replied  her  parent. 
'  You  did  it  quick  as  that,  pa  ?    Truly  ? ' ' 
'Truly,"  said  he. 

'My!"  exclaimed  Emerald,  overcome  with  admiration. 
"I  guess  it  takes  longer  to  hitch  'em  up  than  to  unhitch 
'em,  when  you  do  the  unhitching,  pa ! " 

Then  she  skipped  over  to  Sophy,  and  clung  to  her  hand 
again.  Her  green-hazel  eyes  devoured  the  tall,  pale  lady's 
face.  She  was  fairly  a-quiver  to  participate  in  the  emo 
tions  of  the  divorced  heroine. 

"Well  ..."  she  said.  "Now  you're  ww~married.  Are 
you  happy  ? ' ' 

Sue  looked  like  a  hawk  about  to  pounce,  but  Sophy  an 
swered  quietly: 

"I  really  don't  know,  Emerald,"  she  said. 

"But  you  ain't  sorry  you  did  it,  are  you?"  persisted 
the  child. 

This  was  too  much  for  the  patience  of  a  childless  woman. 
Miss  Pickett  took  Miss  Dainton  by  the  hand  and  led  her 
firmly  to  her  father. 

"Please  explain  to  your  little  girl,"  said  she,  "that 
there  are  some  occasions  where  children  should  not  be 
seen,  much  less  heard." 

Mr.  Dainton  admitted  ruddily  that  "he  guessed  that  was 
so."  But  he  would  have  liked  to  shake  the  woman  who 
had  snubbed  his  Emerald. 

The  child  pouted  a  while,  then  sidled  up  to  Sophy  again 
as  they  walked  through  the  hot,  gusty  streets  towards  the 
hotel.  It  seemed  impossible  for  her  to  resist  the  double 
fascination  that  Sophy  exercised  over  her,  as  woman  and 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  513 

as  divorcee.  Sophy  let  the  child  take  her  passive  hand. 
She  was  hardly  conscious  of  it,  so  far  was  she  in  a  world  of 
alien  thought. 

Father  and  daughter  escorted  them  to  the  Palace  Hotel, 
where  they  said  final  good-bys.  The  two  women  went  up 
stairs  in  silence.  Without  taking  off  her  hat  Sophy  sat 
down,  still  in  that  brown  study.  Her  eyes  were  fixed 
vaguely  on  the  white  satin  "Regulations"  over  the  door. 
Miss  Pickett  moved  about,  putting  articles  into  her  open 
trunk.  They  were  to  leave  for  Virginia  on  the  midnight 
train.  Every  now  and  then  she  would  glance  at  Sophy,  but 
she  said  nothing. 

Presently  Sophy  spoke  to  her. 

"It's  very  painful  .  .  .  being  born,  Sue." 

' '  '  Being  born '  ? "  said  Miss  Pickett,  stopping  on  her  way 
to  the  trunk  with  an  odd  shoe  in  her  hand. 

"Yes,  Sue.  .  .  .  It's  hard.  It  hurts.  .  .  .  Drawing  in 
the  first  breaths  hurts.  .  .  .  When  I've  breathed  really 
deep,  it  will  be  different.  ..." 

"Yes — I  understand,  lamb,"  said  Sue  softly. 

Sophy  went  on,  her  eyes  still  fixed  on  the  white  satin 
scroll. 

"You  know,  Sue  ...  it's  said  that  when  one  dies  and 
wakes  up  in  quite  another  state,  one  doesn't  realise  that 
one  has  died  just  at  first.  Well  ...  I  feel  something  like 
that.  I've  come  into  a  queer,  new  state  of  being.  I  can't 
seem  to  realise  myself  or  anything  just  yet." 

"Yes,  dear,"  said  her  cousin,  fitting  the  shoe  into  a 
corner  of  the  trunk,  and  coming  back  to  sit  down  near  her. 
Sophy  reached  out  one  hand  mechanically,  and  Sue  took 
it  in  both  her  own,  with  quiet,  matter-of-fact  affection. 
Sophy  still  gazed  before  her,  seeing  nothing. 

"It's  a  queer  thing  to  say,  Sue,"  she  continued  after  a 
moment,  "but  I  don't  think  I've  lived  at  all  yet  .  .  .  not 
really." 

This  did  seem  odd  to  Miss  Pickett,  but  she  thought  it  due 
to  a  certain  inevitable  old-maidishness  on  her  part,  and 
gave  no  sign. 

"I'll  try  to  explain  what  I  mean,"  said  Sophy.  "I've 
loved  love  all  my  life.  But  love  isn't  given  us  just  to  love 
.  .  .  the  love  between  two  people — a  man  and  a  woman 
.  .  .  is  only  one  tiny  part  of  love.  Yes  ..."  She  knitted 
her  straight  brows  trying  to  bring  her  thought  to  clearness 


514  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

for  the  other.  ' '  That  kind  of  love — if  it  tries  to  be  an  end 
in  itself  has  to  die  ...  to  wither  away.  Or,  if  it  does 
last,  then  the  soul  withers." 

She  smiled  suddenly,  turning  her  eyes  on  her  cousin. 

"I  think  the  Serpent  was  really  kinder  to  Adam  and 
Eve,  when  he  got  them  turned  out  of  Eden,  than  Jehovah 
was  when  he  shut  them  up  in  it,"  she  said. 

"How's  that?"  asked  Miss  Pickett,  startled,  for  she  was 
rather  orthodox  in  her  views  on  religious  form,  though  her 
big  heart  made  her  more  unconventional  in  practise. 

"Why,  just  think  of  it  for  a  moment,"  Sophy  answered. 
"If  the  Serpent  hadn't  interrupted  their  tcte-d-tete — there 
they  would  be  to  this  day — wandering  love-sick  among 
fadeless  flowers,  with  nothing,  nothing,  nothing  before 
them  but  an  eternity  of  love-making!"  Her  pale  face 
alight  with  mingled  whimsicality  and  sadness,  she  added, 
leaning  closer:  "Sue  ...  I'll  whisper  you  something. 
.  .  .  The  Serpent  was  Jehovah  in  disguise,  Sue!" 

A  second  later  she  said: 

"Don't  be  vexed,  dear,  will  you?  .  .  .  It's  such  a  com 
fort  thinking  aloud  to  you  like  this.  ..." 

"No,  indeed.  Go  on.  I  won't  be  vexed,"  Miss  Pickett 
assured  her  warmly.  "You  always  were  an  irreverent 
monkey — but  then  the  Lord  made  monkeys.  He  knows  how 
to  allow  for  their  antics." 

But  Sophy  was  intent  upon  her  own  train  of  thought 
again  and  only  smiled  absently  at  this  indirect  reproof. 

"Two  lessons  ..."  she  then  said  slowly.  "It  took  two 
bitter  lessons  to  teach  me  the  truth  about  love — the  sort  of 
love  that  I  always  dreamed  of  as  supreme — the  love  that 
is  'like  an  Archangel  beating  his  iridescent  wings  in  the 
void'  .  .  ." 

Miss  Pickett  could  not  follow  the  subtleties  of  Sophy's 
musing,  she  could  only  feel  the  pain  that  underlay  it.  She 
said  gently: 

"You  mustn't  deny  love,  honey,  just  because  it's  failed 
you.  I  don't  ever  want  to  see  my  child  grow  bitter." 

"It's  only  one  kind  of  love  that  I'm  denying,  Sue — not 
Eros,  but  Anteros  .  .  .  the  false  god.  .  .  .  He  comes  in  a 
lovely  glamour.  He's  the  rainbow  on  the  foam  of  break 
ing  waves.  When  the  sea  is  still  he  vanishes.  My  bitter 
ness  is  only  against  myself — for  having  worshipped  a  false 
god." 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  515 

"Well,  child — maybe  you  have.  But  thank  the  Lord !  no 
mistake  is  final  at  your  age.  ..." 

"My  mistakes  have  been  very  final  for  me,  Sue.  I've 
laid  all  my  frankincense  and  myrrh  on  the  altar  of  Ante- 
ros.  I've  nothing  to  offer  the  true  god.  But  there's  my 
son  .  .  .  my  defeat  shall  make  his  victory.  There  shall 
be  one  man  in  the  world  who  knows  the  true  god  from  the 
false.  Some  woman  shall  be  glad  through  my  pain.  Some 
day,  when  a  woman  loves  my  Bobby,  she  shall  be  able  to 
say :  '  This  is  my  beloved  and  this  is  my  friend!'  ' 

Sue  glanced  quickly  at  her,  but  her  expression  was 
wholly  unconscious.  She  was  not  thinking  of  Amaldi  in 
that  moment.  She  was  only  thinking  that  love  to  be  real, 
to  be  perfect,  to  be  lasting  must  include  friendship,  com 
radeship,  understanding,  mutual  endeavour.  That  to  re 
tain  its  fulness  it  must  give  out  to  others  besides  the  one, 
give  incessantly,  untiringly,  without  stint,  without  grudg 
ing.  That  instead  of  raising  magic  walls  of  enclosure,  it 
should  level  all  barriers. 

She  took  another  tone  suddenly. 

Colour  came  into  her  face.  She  looked  with  darkened 
eyes  at  her  cousin. 

"Sue  ..."  she  said.  "The  fact  is  that  all  these  years 
I've  been  nothing  but  a  miserable  happiness-hunter!" 

' '  Nonsense ! ' '  said  Miss  Pickett. 

' '  Just  that  ...  a  happiness-hunter, ' '  repeated  Sophy. 

"Well  .  .  .  and  what  is  everybody  else  doing  but  hunt 
ing  happiness,  I'd  like  to  know?"  retorted  her  cousin. 
"Even  the  martyrs  were  after  it!  If  they  hadn't  found 
happiness  in  martyrdom  they  wouldn  't  have  sought  it,  you 
may  be  sure.  Don't  be  morbid,  child,  for  goodness'  sake!" 

"I'm  not  morbid.  And  what  you  say  is  true  in  a  way. 
But  there  is  selfish  happiness  and  unselfish  happiness,  and 
what  I've  wanted  was  the  selfish  kind.  I  wanted  love  all 
to  myself.  What  do  I  know  of  life  really?  .  .  .  What  do 
I  know  of  what's  going  on  in  the  real  world?  .  .  .  Oh,  'it 
is  good  for  me  that  I  have  been  afflicted ! '  It  is  something, 
at  least,  that  I  can  say  that  from  my  soul — with  all  my 
might.  It  is  good  ...  it  is  good  for  me.  ...  I'm  glad 
the  Serpent  has  come  into  Eden.  ...  I'm  glad  that  I've 
eaten  of  the  fruit  of  the  knowledge  of  good  and  evil !  .  .  . 
Now  I'm  going  out  into  the  wilderness  of  life,  and  I'm  go 
ing  to  learn  how  to  live.  I'm  just  born,  but  I'm  going  to 


516  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

'put  aside  childish  things'  .  .  .  that  toy  called  happiness, 
with  all  the  rest!" 

Miss  Pickett  gazed  at  the  ardent  face,  with  affection. 
Then  she  smiled  wisely. 

"Perhaps,  honey,"  she  said,  "you'll  find  happiness  in 
doing  without  it.  At  any  rate — you  seem  right  happy  at 
the  prospect  of  not  being  happy." 

Sophy  rose  and,  kneeling  down  beside  her,  leaned  her 
head  on  that  kind  breast. 

"Do  you  know,  Sue,"  she  said  dreamily,  "after  all,  it's 
rather  wonderful  to  feel  that  one  has  done  with  love,  and 
yet  finds  life  worth  while." 

"Is  it,  dear?"  said  Sue. 

"Yes,  it  is.  You  know  Socrates  was  glad  when  he  had 
passed  the  age  of  love.  Now  I  understand  why  that  was. 
I  never  did  before." 

Sue  Pickett  said  nothing,  only  stroked  the  dark  head 
upon  her  breast.  But  a  rather  cryptic  smile  stirred  her 
lips.  She  was  thinking  that  from  all  she  had  read  and 
heard,  two  beings  could  hardly  differ  more  essentially  than 
Sophy  and  the  Sage  of  Athens. 


XLYI 

SOPHY  spent  the  rest  of  that  summer  and  the  following 
winter  at  Sweet- Waters.  She  did  not  wish  to  go  among 
people  so  soon  after  her  divorce,  besides  she  felt  the  need 
of  self -adjustment  to  her  new  relations  with  life. 

That  sense  of  being  unreal  in  a  world  of  unreality,  which 
she  had  mentioned  to  Susan  Pickett  on  the  day  of  the  di 
vorce,  lasted  for  some  time.  Then,  in  the  early  autumn — 
in  her  favourite  month  of  October — began  a  recrudescence 
of  the  imperishable  passion  for  life  as  opposed  to  mere 
existence,  that  lent  her  always  the  elemental  charm  of  fire. 
Many  natures  shine  in  the  great  dim  of  circumstance,  but 
with  light  differently  derived.  Some  are,  as  one  might  put 
it,  phosphorescent.  In  others  one  divines  the  pinch  of 
star-dust  in  the  clay — still  luminous,  still  perfervid,  as 
when  the  cosmic  nebula  first  spun  the  white  hot  core  of 
things.  It  was  this  mystic  fire  that  glowed  again  in  Sophy, 
burning  clearer  for  the  ash  beneath  it,  even  as  the  humbler, 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  517 

yet  still  sacred  fire  of  hearths,  burns  clearer  in  like  case. 
It  was  as  if  in  resigning  her  desire  for  one  supremely  per 
sonal  love,  Love  itself  had  drawn  nearer.  Motherhood 
meant  for  her  now,  not  only  her  feeling  for  her  little  son, 
but  an  aching  towards  all  unmothered  things.  It  was  not 
welt-schmerz,  this  feeling — welt  passion  rather.  .  .  .  She 
was  like  one  who  has  lived  for  years  in  a  lovely,  doorless, 
painted  house,  lit  by  perfumed  candles — then  one  day 
steps  through  a  sudden  break  in  its  wall  to  face  the  tre 
mendous  sea.  Yes — life  lay  like  that  before  her — perilous 
but  to  be  drowned  in  rather  than  left  unessayed — unsailed. 
The  cosmic  romance  was  upon  her.  She  no  longer  belittled 
romance  to  a  love-tale — rather  it  was  the  adventure  of  a 
creative  god — Zeus  as  Poet.  And  this  new,  impassioned 
desire  to  live  fully,  largely,  universally,  so  confused  her 
in  the  beginning,  that  she  hardly  knew  where  first  to  turn 
— so  vast  were  her  ignorances — so  clamorous  the  wave- 
like  voices  that  called  from  every  side. 

She  felt  a  great  thirst  to  know  more  of  the  vital  ques 
tions  of  the  day.  She  awoke  to  the  fact  that  the  time  was 
in  the  throes  of  parturition.  Something  huge,  cyclopean, 
was  being  born.  Change  already  stared  iron-eyed  from 
the  cradle  of  the  twentieth  century  and  hammered  with 
fists  of  brass.  Now  was  nascent  its  twin  Disorder.  She 
read  until  her  brain  reeled  and  her  heart  ached.  Giddy 
and  downcast,  she  bared  her  mind  to  the  bludgeonings  of 
tremendous  questions  which  she  could  not  adequately  com 
prehend.  Then  common  sense — kind  old  nurse — whispered 
soothingly:  "  'Seek  not  out  things  that  are  too  hard  for 
thee.'  There  is  a  glory  of  the  stars  of  Political  Economy, 
and  another  of  the  moon  of  Poetic  Faculty.  Thou  shalt 
comprehend  by  intuition  what  will  never  be  given  thee  by 
ratiocination.  For  'if  a  man's  mind  is  sometimes  wont 
to  tell  him  more  than  seven  watchmen  that  sit  above  in  an 
high  tower,'  a  woman's  heart  can  divine  the  very  stars 
above  the  tower  and  draw  down  influences  as  sweet  as  those 
of  Pleiades  for  the  sustainment  of  her  spirit." 

So  Sophy  left  off  trying  to  understand  clearly  all  the 
"ologies"  and  fly-wheel  within  fly-wheel  movements  of  the 
day,  and  contented  herself  with  a  general  apprehension  of 
the  Zeitgeist.  She  decided  that  these  gigantic  sociological 
and  political  questions  were  for  her  what  the  higher  mathe 
matics  are  to  the  humble  arithmetician.  She  could  compre- 


518  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

hend  that  a  fourth  dimension  might  exist,  but  not  in  what 
it  might  consist.  It  consoled  her  to  remember  that  in  the 
higher  mathematics  of  existence  as  of  numbers  there  was 
an  "incalculable  quantity."  The  bigger  brains,  then, 
paused  at  a  point  higher  up,  just  as  hers  paused  at  one 
lower  down. 

Then  again  woke  in  her  the  desire  to  create  in  her  own 
world  of  poetry. 

All  these  struggles  and  hopes,  and  glees  and  failures — all 
this  turbulence  of  her  new-straining  self,  she  poured  out 
in  her  letters  to  Amaldi,  and  he  answered  them  in  kind. 
Almost  every  day  they  wrote  to  each  other.  It  seemed 
incredible  to  her  that  her  life  had  once  been  empty  of 
those  letters  to  which  she  now  looked  forward  every  day 
as  to  the  simple  necessity  of  food  and  drink.  Never  once 
did  he  fail  to  respond  to  the  mood  or  need  from  which  she 
wrote — and  with  so  fine,  so  just  a  discernment  that  some 
times  he  seemed  to  answer  thoughts  that  she  had  not  writ 
ten  down,  but  that  had  been  in  her  mind  when  she  was 
writing.  So  exquisitely  true  was  this  communication  of 
their  minds  and  natures  at  a  distance  that  sometimes  she 
almost  dreaded  meeting  him  in  actuality  again.  Would  not 
the  charm  vanish  with  nearness?  She  felt  that  she  could 
far  better  miss  his  bodily  presence  from  her  life  than  those 
wonderful,  satisfying  letters. 

The  spring  came  and  with  it  a  new  shock  for  Sophy. 
She  was  writing  in  her  old  study  one  March  morning  when 
Harold  Grey  entered  with  the  day's  paper  in  his  hand. 
What  he  had  come  to  show  her  was  the  notice  of  the  death 
of  Lord  Wychcote.  • 

Sophy  took  the  paper  from  him,  feeling  quite  dazed. 
She  grew  pale  as  she  read.  The  notice  stated  that  Viscount 
Wychcote  had  died  in  his  sleep  at  his  country  seat,  Dyne- 
hurst,  on  the  night  of  the  second  of  March.  The  news  had 
been  wired  to  the  Tim.es  as  being  of  interest  in  connection 
with  the  divorce  of  Mrs.  Morris  Loring,  whose  son,  by  her 
first  marriage  with  Lord  Wychcote 's  younger  brother,  the 
Hon.  Cecil  Chesney,  would  now  succeed  to  the  title — etc., 
etc. 

The  shock  was  a  double  one  to  Sophy,  for  in  addition  to 
her  sincere  affection  for  Gerald,  there  was  the  question  of 
the  allowance  which  he  had  renewed  immediately  after  her 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  519 

divorce.  Now  this  allowance  would  most  probably  be 
stopped.  She  had  no  idea  whether  Gerald  had  been  in  a 
position  to  leave  her  anything,  or  whether,  in  case  the 
property  were  all  entailed,  she  would  be  still  given  an  al 
lowance,  as  Bobby 's  mother  and  guardian.  In  case  she  had 
to  depend  entirely  on  her  own  slender  income,  she  did  not 
see  how  she  could  manage  to  live  in  England.  She  sup 
posed  that  a  sum  would  be  apportioned  for  Bobby's  edu 
cation,  but  even  that  was  only  a  surmise. 

Within  a  few  days,  however,  came  a  full  letter  from 
Mr.  Surtees.  He  explained  to  her  that  the  bulk  of  the 
Wychcote  property  was  entailed,  but  that  certain  property 
which  had  been  left  to  the  late  Lord  Wychcote  in  fee  simple 
by  a  maternal  aunt,  had  been  willed  to  her  (Mrs.  Chesney) 
by  his  lordship.  This  property  consisted  of  the  town  house 
in  Regent's  Park  in  which  Mrs.  Chesney  had  formerly 
resided,  and  a  small  estate  in  Warwickshire,  called  Breene 
Manor.  The  Manor  house  was  in  good  condition,  though 
not  of  great  size.  It  was  a  Tudor  building  and  stood  in 
grounds  thickly  wooded.  The  situation  was  salubrious  and 
the  view  fine,  but  there  was  no  income  from  the  estate,  as 
Miss  Bollinghame,  the  relative  from  whom  the  late  Earl 
inherited  the  property,  had  sold  all  but  a  hundred  acres  of 
the  original  lands.  He  wished  to  explain  to  Mrs.  Chesney, 
however,  that  the  trustees  of  the  Wychcote  property  were 
empowered  to  advance  sums  of  money  for  the  education 
and  maintenance  of  her  son,  and  that  the  money  for  main 
tenance  would  be  paid  to  her  as  his  guardian,  in  order  that 
she  might  keep  up  a  position  suitable  for  the  young  peer. 
Mr.  Surtees  ended  by  venturing  to  express  to  Mrs.  Chesney 
his  opinion,  as  the  legal  adviser  of  the  family,  that  it 
would  be  well  for  her  to  come  to  England  with  her  son  as 
soon  as  possible. 

From  the  receipt  of  this  letter  until  two  months  later, 
when  she  was  settled  at  Breene,  Sophy  moved  again  in  a 
world  of  unreality.  The  quiet  of  the  lovely  old  house  and 
its  surrounding  woods  and  gardens  helped  to  restore  her 
to  her  normal  state  once  more;  for  she  found  Breene  a 
place  after  her  own  heart,  strangely  familiar,  as  though 
she  had  visited  it  before  in  dreams.  As  Mr.  Surtees  had 
said,  the  house  was  Tudor,  but  it  had  been  added  to  and 
altered  during  so  many  other  epochs,  that  it  had  ended  by 
having  a  flavour  and  architecture  all  its  own.  For  some 


520  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

years  it  had  been  leased,  and  the  great  walls  of  yew  that 
enclosed  the  lawns  were  smooth  and  massy  from  constant 
clipping.  It  stood  in  a  crescent  of  beech  woods.  Scotch  firs 
towered  behind  it.  To  the  south  lay  rose-gardens  sloping 
to  an  oval  pond. 

And  this  adorable  old  place  was  her  own.  Sophy  could 
scarcely  believe  it.  The  first  three  weeks  of  her  return  to 
England  had  been  spent  at  Dynehurst  with  Lady  Wych- 
cote.  Those  had  been  gloomy  weeks  indeed,  for  in  addi 
tion  to  the  natural  sadness  of  the  situation,  there  had  been 
inevitable  friction  between  her  and  Lady  Wychcote  on  the 
subject  of  Bobby's  future.  Sophy  had  known  of  course 
thau  this  must  come,  but  she  had  hoped  that  it  would  not 
come  so  quickly.  Lady  Wychcote  was  intolerant  of  the 
idea  that  Bobby  should  become  a  writer.  Sophy  firmly 
maintained  that  the  boy  should  choose  his  own  career. 
Both  women  controlled  their  tempers,  but  there  had  been 
some  sharp  passages  of  arms  between  them.  "When  Sophy 
went  to  her  room  the  second  night  at  Dynehurst,  she 
thanked  Gerald,  as  though  he  had  been  alive  and  could  hear 
her,  for  having  made  it  possible  for  her  to  live  in  a  house 
of  her  own  with  her  son,  apart  from  his  grandmother. 

While  she  was  at  Dynehurst,  Olive  Arundel  had  helped 
Miss  Pickett  to  get  all  in  order  at  Breene — for  Susan  had 
consented  to  come  and  live  with  Sophy  for  the  next  few 
years. 

It  was  quite  wonderful  to  drive  up  to  the  old  Manor 
house  in  the  late  April  afternoon,  and  find  Susan  standing 
in  the  open  doorway  to  receive  her.  Behind  her  the  light 
from  a  fire  of  beech  logs  flickered  over  the  dark  wainscot 
ing.  Candles  and  lamps  were  lighted.  The  tea-table  stood 
ready.  This  was  home — her  home  and  Bobby 's — this  lovely, 
dignified  old  house  with  its  sheltering  yew  hedges  shut 
ting  out  the  world  until  she  should  need  it  once  again. 


XLVII 

THE  only  regret  that  Sophy  felt  for  not  living  part  of 
the  time  in  London  was  on  account  of  her  friendship  with 
Amaldi.  It  would  have  been  so  much  easier  for  her  to  see 
him  constantly  had  she  been  in  town.  But  then  Breene 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  521 

was  not  so  far  away.  He  could  easily  spend  a  day  with 
her  now  and  then.  Susan's  presence  would  make  such 
visits  perfectly  proper.  In  his  last  letter  he  had  said  that 
he  would  be  in  England  about  the  end  of  April.  The 
symphonies  that  had  met  with  such  acclaim  in  Dresden 
were  now  to  be  given  in  London. 

Sophy  looked  forward  with  more  and  more  of  that  odd 
mingling  of  dread  and  pleasure  to  seeing  him  again.  She 
had  found  the  attempt  to  realise  ideals  but  a  tragic  busi 
ness.  And  the  ideal  that  she  had  of  their  friendship  was 
very  high. 

But  from  the  first  day  that  Anaaldi  spent  with  her  at 
Breene,  she  knew  that  her  doubts  had  all  been  un 
founded.  Their  friendship  when  together  again  was  more 
perfect  than  ever,  for  the  slight  constraint  that  she  had  so 
often  felt  underneath  his  spoken  words  seemed  quite  gone. 
He  talked  with  her  now  almost  as  freely  as  he  had  written 
in  those  letters  that  she  so  treasured.  And  there  was 
something  different,  also,  in  his  look,  his  voice,  a  natural 
ness,  as  it  were  a  relaxing  of  some  inner  tension. 

She  did  not  realise  that  never  before  had  Amaldi  known 
her  as  a  free  woman.  Always  before  she  had  belonged  to 
some  one  else.  Now  she  was  her  own.  What  she  gave  him 
no  one  else  had  any  right  to.  The  relief  and  the  joy  that 
he  had  in  this  knowledge  made  him  seem  another  man  even 
to  himself  at  this  time.  It  was  enough  for  the  time  being 
to  realise  the  inviolateness  of  all  her  sanctities.  This  re 
alisation  was  so  wonderful  that  it  stayed  for  a  while  the 
sharp  urge  of  love,  and  filled  the  vacancies  of  absence  with 
a  sense  of  triumph. 

i  As  for  the  little  household — Sue  Pickett,  Bobby,  Harold 
Grey — they  all  liked  Amaldi  heartily.  And  as  other 
friends,  both  men  and  women,  often  " spent  a  day"  at 
Breene  with  Sophy,  Miss  Pickett  had  no  cause  to  worry 
over  "appearances,"  as  she  had  frankly  feared  that  she 
might  have  to.  Still  .  .  .  Sue  was  not  quite  easy  in  her 
heart  over  the  situation.  As  she  had  declared,  she  did 
believe  in  friendship  between  men  and  women — but  not  so 
very  much  in  a  friendship  between  a  man  and  woman  as 
young  and  attractive  as  these  two. 

Then  one  day  something  happened  to  make  her  really 
apprehensive.  It  was  about  the  end  of  June.  Amaldi  and 
Sophy  were  in  the  rose-garden.  Through  an  archway  in 


522  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

the  yew  hedge  Susan  could  see  them  as  she  sat  with  her 
embroidery  under  one  of  the  big  beeches  on  the  lawn. 
Sophy  was  cutting  roses.  As  she  cut  them  she  laid  them 
in  a  basket  that  Amaldi  held  for  her.  The  sunlight  on  her 
thin  white  gown,  and  the  red  and  pink  and  yellow  roses 
that  kept  tossing  into  the  basket,  gave  an  effect  of  light- 
hearted  happiness.  Sophy's  black  sash  only  heightened 
this  impression.  It  was  as  though  grief  had  shrunk  to 
the  size  of  a  narrow  riband. 

And  as  Sue  sat  there  thinking  this,  she  heard  the  chug 
ging  of  a  motor,  and  there  was  Lady  Wychcote  sweeping 
round  the  lawn,  all  in  black  from  top  to  toe,  the  reverse, 
as  it  were,  of  that  bright,  sun-washed  picture  framed  by 
the  yew  hedge. 

Susan  had  not  met  Lady  AVychcote  before,  but  she 
guessed  in  an  instant  who  it  was.  She  went  forward,  her 
back  pringling  with  the  consciousness  of  the  sunny  tableau 
upon  which  it  was  turned. 

Lady  Wychcote  was  inclined  to  be  gracious.  She  had 
heard  of  Miss  Pickett  from  Sophy  of  course.  So  very  good 
of  her  to  take  pity  on  poor  Sophy's  solitude.  And  just  as 
she  was  saying  this,  she  caught  sight  of  the  two  in  the  rose 
garden.  Susan  knew  that  she  had  seen  them  by  the  sudden 
stiffening  of  her  figure,  even  before  she  lifted  her  face-a 
main  in  that  direction. 

"Who  is  that  with  Sophy?"  she  asked  rather  abruptly. 

"Oh  ...  an  old  friend,"  replied  Susan,  and  the  mo 
ment  the  words  were  uttered  she  wished  them  back.  They 
sounded  excuse-making  somehow.  She  added  quickly : 
"The  Marchese  Amaldi." 

"Ah?  .  .  .  'An  old  friend'?"  repeated  Lady  Wychcote. 
"I've  not  met  him  I  think.  What  did  you  say  the  name 
was?" 

"Amaldi.  .  .  .  The  Marchese  Marco  Amaldi.  ..." 

"Wait  a  bit  ..."  said  Lady  WTychcote.  "Though  I 
don't  know  him,  the  name  seems  familiar."  She  repeated 
it  once  or  twice:  "Amaldi  .  .  .  Amaldi.  ..."  Then  she 
looked  quickly  at  Susan.  "Is  he  by  any  chance  the  man 
whose  music  has  been  so  much  discussed  this  season?" 

"Yes — the  same,"  said  Susan. 

"Ah  .  .  .  now  I  place  him.  They  were  talking  of  him 
at  dinner  last  night.  lie  has  an  impossible  wife,  it  seems, 
that  he  can 't  get  rid  of. ' ' 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  523 

"The  Marchese  is  separated  from  his  wife.  There's  no 
divorce  in  Italy,  I  believe,"  said  Susan. 

"That  must  seem  odd  to  an  American,"  observed  Lady 
Wychcote  in  her  dryest  tone. 

Susan  resented  this  tone  and  the  remark,  but  made  no 
reply. 

Her  ladyship  was  again  looking  towards  the  garden 
through  her  face-d-main. 

"He's  a  very  good-looking  young  man,  is  he  not?"  she 
said  at  last. 

"Yes,"  assented  Susan. 

"He  comes  quite  often  I  suppose?" 

Susan  looked  straight  at  her. 

' '  What  would  you  call  often  ? ' '  she  asked. 

"Ah — you're  annoyed,"  said  Lady  Wychcote  coolly; 
"but  the  fact  is,  that  a  young  woman  in  Sophy's  position 
can't  be  too  careful.  In  England,  among  people  of  our 
class,  there's  still  a  strong  feeling  against  divorce.  As  an 
American  you  could  hardly  realise  how  deep-rooted  this 
feeling  is.  I  think  it  right  to  tell  you  of  it." 

"Thanks,"  said  Susan.  She  turned  towards  the  rose- 
garden.  "If  you  will  come  with  me  ..."  she  suggested, 
moving  forward  as  she  spoke. 

But  Lady  Wychcote  made  no  move  to  follow  her. 

"By  the  way,  do  you  happen  to  know  where  my  grand 
son  is  ? "  asked  she. 

' '  With  his  tutor.  They  've  ridden  over  to  Carbeck  Castle. 
A  picnic  with  Lady  Towne's  children  and  Mrs.  Arundel's 
little  boy.  But  if  you  '11  follow  me,  Lady  Wychcote,  I  '11  go 
and  tell  Sophy  that  you're  here.  ..." 

"No.  Wait,  please,"  said  the  other  quickly.  "I'd  like 
to  talk  a  bit  more  with  you  first. ' ' 

Susan  drew  forward  a  wicker  chair.  Lady  Wychcote 
seated  herself,  and  Susan,  following  her  example,  took  up 
her  embroidery  again.  But  her  fingers  felt  very  nervous. 
It  seemed  to  her  that  she  had  never  heard  those  two  in  the 
garden  talk  and  laugh  so  gaily  and  incessantly. 

' '  You  know  Mrs.  Arundel,  I  believe  ? ' '  now  enquired  the 
other,  in  her  chill,  brittle  voice. 

"Yes.  She  kindly  helped  me  to  get  this  home  ready  for 
Sophy." 

"You  like  her?" 

The  question  was  a  sneer. 


524  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

"Very  much,"  said  Susan  rather  sharply.  She  flushed 
with  vexation  as  she  spoke. 

Lady  Wychcote  noticed  this  flush  and  divined  its  cause, 
but  continued  with  undisturbed  composure. 

"I'm  sorry  to  seem  captious,"  said  she,  "but  I  confess 
that  I'm  sorry  to  hear  you  say  so.  In  my  opinion,  Mrs. 
Arundel  is  not  at  all  a  fitting  friend  for  my  daughter-in- 
law,  especially  in  her  present  position." 

Susan  remained  silent.  She  felt  too  irritated  to  trust 
herself. 

' '  I  see  that  you  resent  what  I  say, ' '  Lady  AVychcote  took 
it  up  again.  "But  you're  probably  unaware  that  Mrs. 
Arundel's  looseness  of  morals  is  a  matter  of  common 
knowledge." 

Susan  put  down  her  embroidery. 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  that,  Lady  Wychcote," 
said  she  firmly.  "I  only  know  that  she's  been  very,  very 
kind  to  Sophy.  I  think,  if  you  don 't  mind,  I  '11  call  Sophy 
now.  I  'd  rather  you  said  these  things  direct  to  her. ' ' 

She  rose  as  she  spoke,  and  went  off  to  the  garden  before 
her  ladyship  could  protest. 

' '  Hateful,  hateful  woman ! ' '  thought  Susan  as  she  went ; 
"...  ready  to  think  evil  of  every  one. ' '  But  all  the  same 
she  felt  uneasy  and  perturbed.  Suppose  that  Lady  Wych 
cote  should  use  that  acrid  tongue  of  hers  in  starting  gossip 
about  Sophy?  But  then  she  would  hardly  care  to  do  such 
a  thing  in  regard  to  the  mother  of  her  only  grandson! 
Still — one  never  knew  how  such  spiteful  natures  would  act. 
Susan  felt  thoroughly  upset. 

She  was  somewhat  reassured  by  the  calmness  with  which 
Sophy  took  the  news  of  her  mother-in-law's  unexpected 
visit. 

"Motored  over?"  said  she.  "Then  she  must  be  stopping 
with  the  Hiltons.  But  I  thought  she  wasn't  going  there 
until  July." 

Susan  was  further  relieved  to  find  that  Lady  Wychcote 
was  very  civil  indeed  to  Amaldi.  She  seemed  to  find  him 
interesting.  They  talked  together  quite  a  while.  When 
she  was  leaving,  she  said  to  Sophy: 

"You  must  let  Robert  come  to  me  for  a  day,  while  I  am 
with  Mary  Hilton,  Sophy.  I  shall  be  there  a  week  longer." 
Then  she  turned  to  Arnaldi. 

"While  you  are  stopping  in  the  neighbourhood,"  said 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  525 

she,  ' '  it  would  be  very  kind  of  you  to  come  and  let  me  hear 
a  little  of  the  music  that  every  one  is  talking  of,  Marchese. 
My  mourning  keeps  me  out  of  town  this  year." 

Amaldi  said  that  he  would  be  delighted  to  call  on  her 
ladyship,  only  that  he  was  not  stopping  in  the  neighbour 
hood,  and  was  returning  to  town  that  afternoon. 

"Ah?"  she  said,  with  a  look  of  faint  surprise.  And  this 
"Ah?"  renewed  all  Susan's  uneasiness.  To  her  it  seemed 
so  plainly  to  say:  "What!  you  come  all  the  way  from 
London  to  call  on  my  daughter-in-law?  Then  things  are 
even  more  serious  than  I  thought." 

That  evening,  after  Amaldi  had  gone,  she  told  Sophy 
bluntly  of  her  misgivings.  Sophy  was  annoyed  but  not 
apprehensive. 

"She  dislikes  me,  Sue,  and  she  has  a  bitter  tongue — but 
somehow  I  don't  think  she'd  go  as  far  as  that.  ..." 

"Why  not?"  asked  Sue,  who  was  beginning  more  and 
more  to  think  that  in  any  matter  Lady  Wychcote  would  go 
just  as  far  as  she  chose. 

"Well  .  .  .  after  all  I'm  Bobby's  mother.  .  .  .  Why 
should  she  slander  her  only  grandson's  mother?  What 
possible  good  could  it  do  her  ? ' ' 

"I  don't  know,"  Susan  said  uncertainly.  "But  some 
how  I  feel  afraid  of  her  .  .  .  for  you.  ..." 

' '  Oh,  I  've  taken  care  of  myself  with  her  ladyship  before 
now!"  retorted  Sophy  lightly. 

Susan  still  brooded. 

"I'd  be  awfully  careful,  Sophy,  child,  if  I  were  you." 

"How  'careful' — old  Mother  Misery?"  smiled  Sophy, 
slipping  an  arm  about  her  shoulders. 

Susan  looked  straight  at  her  as  she  had  looked  at  Lady 
Wychcote  that  morning. 

"  I  'd  be  careful  about  .  .  .  Amaldi, ' '  said  she  bluntly. 

Sophy 's  arm  dropped.    Rather  coldly  she  said : 

"In  what  way?" 

"I  think  .  .  .  perhaps  .  .  .  yes — I  think  you'd  better 
not  let  him  come  here  so  often,  honey." 

Her  tone  pleaded  for  indulgence,  but  was  also  firm  with 
conviction.  Sophy  was  still  rather  cold  in  manner. 

"You  mean  you  think  I'd  better  sacrifice  a  beautiful, 
harmless  friendship  to  the  whim  of  a  sour  old  woman?" 
asked  she. 

Sue  didn't  retreat. 


526  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

"I  think  you'd  better  not  give  that  'sour  old  woman'  the 
least  scrimption  of  cause  to  gossip  about  you,"  she  replied. 

"You'd  have  me  mould  my  life  on  Lady  Wychcote's 
ideas?" 

Susan  put  her  hand  very  lovingly  on  the  dark  head. 

"Now,  lamb  .  .  .  don't  be  huffy  with  your  old  Sue," 
she  said.  "I  only  want  you  to  be  very,  very  careful  how 
you  cross  that  old  tyrant's  prejudices.  ...  I've  one  of 
the  strongest  feelings  I  ever  had  in  my  life  that  you'd 
regret  it." 

Sophy  looked  at  her  with  grey  eyes  dark  and  defiant. 

"Sue  ..."  she  said,  "I'll  never,  never,  never  give  up 
one  atom  of  my  friendship  with  Marco  Amaldi  for  anybody 
or  anything. ' ' 

What  more  could  Susan  say — at  least  just  then.  She 
went  to  bed  a  very  disturbed,  unhappy  woman. 

Towards  the  end  of  the  week  Sophy  sent  Bobby  over  to 
the  Ililtons'  for  a  day,  as  she  had  promised.  He  returned 
that  evening  in  quite  an  agitated  state  of  mind.  He  rather 
enjoyed  being  with  his  grandmother  occasionally.  As  he 
told  Sophy:  "I  don't  like  Granny  much — but  I  almost 
love  her  sometimes — when  she's  telling  me  'bout  father, 
and  what  a  great  man  he  would  have  been  if  he'd  lived — 
and  what  jolly  things  all  my  grandfathers  did  for  England. 
I  think  Granny 's  something  like  machinery.  You  're  awful 
interested  in  it  ...  but  you  don't  want  to  get  too  near 
to  it." 

This  evening  the  cause  of  his  excitement  was  shown 
plainly  by  his  remarks  to  his  mother  when  she  went  in  to 
"tuck  him  up." 

"I  tell  you  what  it  is,  mother,"  said  he.  "It's  a  awful 
responsibility  for  a  chap  having  not  to  disappoint  his 
mother  or  his  only  gran 'mother,  either  of  'em.  Now  I  was 
just  thinkin' — Granny's  so  set  on  my  bein'  a  statesman — 
and  you'd  like  me  to  be  a  great  writer.  Well — /  might  be 
both!  Dizzy  was,  you  know.  Don't  you  think  if  I  was  a 
great  novelist  and  Prime  Minister,  both  at  once,  that  would 
be  a  solution?" 

Sophy  hugged  him  and  replied  with  perfect  gravity  that 
she  thought  it  would  certainly  be  "a  solution." 

"Well,  I'm  glad,"  sighed  Bobby,  settling  back  upon  his 
pillow.  "  'Cause  if  you  hadn't  thought  so,  I  don't  think 
I'd  have  slept  a  wink  to-night.  I'll  write  Granny  first 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  527 

thing  to-morrow.  She's  leaving  after  lunch.  She  told  me 
to  be  sure  to  tell  you  so  you'd  send  your  letters  to  her  at 
Dynehurst  when  you  wrote." 

But  three  days  later,  about  six  o'clock  in  the  afternoon, 
a  motor  from  the  Hiltons'  swept  again  round  the  lawn  at 
Breene,  and  in  this  motor  was  Lady  Wychcote. 

This  time,  it  happened  to  be  Sophy  and  Amaldi  who 
were  sitting  out  under  the  big  beech.  Bobby  was  there, 
too.  lie  was  leaning  with  both  arms  on  Amaldi 's  knee,  and 
looking  up  eagerly  into  the  young  man's  face.  Amaldi  had 
been  telling  him  some  of  the  adventures  of  Orlando 
Furioso. 

This  time  Amaldi  had  not  come  down  from  London  foi 
the  day,  but  had  also  motored  over  with  Olive  Arundel 
from  her  country  place  some  fifteen  miles  distant.  Susan 
and  Olive  were  in  the  house,  superintending  the  hanging  of 
an  old  print  that  the  latter  had  brought  over  for  Sophy's 
writing-room. 

Sophy  was  frankly  surprised  to  see  her  mother-in-law. 

"Why,  I  thought  you  were  at  Dynehurst!"  she  ex 
claimed.  "Bobby  sent  you  a  letter  there  yesterday." 

"No.  Mary  persuaded  me  to  stop  on  another  week.  I 
came  to  bring  Robert  a  book  I  promised  him. ' ' 

"Oh,  thank  you,  Granny!"  said  the  boy.  He  held  up 
his  cheek  to  be  kissed,  received  the  rather  forbidding  look 
ing  volume  that  she  held  out,  and  retired  soberly  with  it. 
It  was  called  Lives  of  Noted  Statesmen,  Condensed.  Bobby 
could  not  quite  make  out  whether  it  meant  that  the  lives 
or  the  statesmen  were  condensed.  In  any  case  it  promised 
to  be  but  a  dull  exchange  for  the  adventures  of  Orlando. 
And  then  it  was  always  so  much  jollier  to  be  told  a  thing 
than  to  read  it. 

Lady  Wychcote  said  affably  to  Amaldi : 

"I  shall  flatter  myself  that  if  you'd  known  I  was  still 
here  you  'd  have  come  to  play  for  me  while  you  were  in  the 
neighbourhood,  Marchese. ' ' 

"I  should  have  been  only  too  happy,"  replied  he.  "Per 
haps  you  will  allow  me  to  come  to-morrow  ? ' ' 

"What!  All  the  way  from  London  to  call  on  an  old 
woman? — Ah,  that's  very  charming  and  Italian  of  you,  I 
must  say.  ..." 

"I'm  stopping  with  the  Arundels  just  now,"  said 
Amaldi.  "But  I  should  have  been  delighted  to  come  from 


528 

town  to  play  for  you."  Like  Susan,  he  found  something 
perturbing  in  Lady  Wychcote's  manner.  He  could  not 
define  it,  but  he  felt  uneasy.  There  was  a  something  under 
neath  that  very  affable  tone.  .  .  .  He  thought  her  singu 
larly  antipatica.  Perhaps  that  was  it.  ...  Yes  ...  it 
must  be  that.  .  .  .  She  was  antipatica. 

On  this  occasion  her  ladyship  did  not  leave  before 
Amaldi  as  on  her  last  visit.  She  remained  until  he  and 
Olive  Arundel  had  gone.  Then  she  said  to  Sophy :  ' '  By 
the  way — could  I  have  a  few  minutes  alone  with  you?" 

' '  Of  course, ' '  said  Sophy. 

She  thought  it  was  to  be  the  usual  thing  about  Bobby's 
education,  which  Lady  Wychcote  did  not  think  sufficiently 
strenuous  and  political.  But  her  mother-in-law  had  quite 
another  matter  in  mind. 

They  walked  off  together  down  one  of  the  beech  avenues, 
and  Lady  Wychcote  began  without  preamble. 

"My  dear  Sophy,"  said  she,  "you  will  probably  be  very 
angry,  but  I  feel  that  I  must  speak.  Your  friendship  with 
Mrs.  Arundel  doesn't  at  all  do  you  justice.  ..." 

"Please  don't  say  anything  against  Olive,"  put  in  Sophy 
quickly. 

"Very  well.  But  you  know  my  opinion  on  that  subject 
already,  so  after  all  it  isn't  necessary.  I  was  thinking  of 
her  chiefly  just  then  in  connection  with  the  Marchese 
Amaldi." 

Sophy  merely  looked  at  her  with  an  inquiring  expression. 

' '  I  mean  that  it  seems  to  me  doubly  unfortunate  that  he 
should  be  such  a  friend  of  hers  also,"  continued  Lady 
Wychcote. 

"Please  explain  what  you  mean  by  'doubly  unfortu 
nate.'  "  said  Sophy. 

"I  shall — very  frankly.  Your  position  as  a  divorcee  is 
a  very  difficult  one,  and  I  think  that  your  rather  intimate 
friendship  with  the  Marchese  will  make  it  still  more  diffi 
cult." 

"You  are  certainly  frank,"  said  Sophy,  white  with  an 
ger.  "But  you  must  allow  me  to  be  the  judge  of  my  own 
conduct." 

"The  world  constitutes  itself  judge  in  such  cases,"  re 
torted  her  mother-in-law.  "Now  pray  try  to  take  my 
words  as  I  mean  them.  I  haven't  the  least  desire  to  pry  or 
meddle.  I  am  merely  calling  your  attention  to  what  others 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  529 

might  think  if  they  chanced  to  come  here  twice  within  a 
week,  as  I  've  done,  and  each  time  found  that  young  Italian 
with  you.  There  would  be  comment — and  not  kindly  com 
ment  either,  you  may  be  sure  of  that. ' '  ^ 

"Oh,"  exclaimed  Sophy,  exasperated,  "what  a  low  way 
of  thinking  most  people  have ! ' ' 

"Yes — the  average  mind  is  not  exalted  in  its  views," 
assented  the  other  calmly.  "That  is  what  I  wanted  to 
remind  you  of." 

Sophy  stood  still  and  looked  into  her  eyes  with  a  proud 
look. 

"No  breath  of  scandal  has  ever  touched  my  name,"  she 
said. 

"  I  'm  quite  aware  of  that,  my  dear  Sophy, ' '  replied  Lady 
Wychcote.  "My  only  object  was  to  help  you  to  prevent 
such  a  thing  from  ever  happening. ' ' 

"It's  very  kind  of  you,  I'm  sure,"  said  Sophy,  speaking 
with  difficulty. 

The  older  woman  answered  with  considerable  amia 
bility  : 

"No.  You  don't  think  it  kind  of  me.  And  I  quite 
understand  that  you  resent  what  you  think  only  tiresome 
meddling  on  my  part.  But  I  meant  it  well.  Believe  me  or 
not,  as  you  choose.  Of  course,  as  you  said,  you  must  be 
the  judge  of  your  own  conduct.  Only" — she  gave  her  a 
very  shrewd  look  indeed — "don't  forget,  pray,  in  case  a 
.  .  .  some  .  .  .  unpleasantness  should  occur,  that  I  tried 
to  forewarn  you." 

Whiter  than  ever,  Sophy  said  in  a  low  voice : 

"I  shan't  forget." 

"Then  tHat  is  all.  I  won't  annoy  you  with  the  subject 
again. ' ' 

" Thanks,"  said  Sophy. 

They  walked  back  to  the  house,  and  Lady  Wychcote  com 
mented  on  the  charm  of  the  old  grounds,  and  the  advan 
tage  that  it  was  for  Bobby  to  have  such  healthful  sur 
roundings,  but  Sophy  said  nothing  whatever. 


XLVIII 

IT  seemed  intolerable  to  Sophy  that  Lady  Wychcote  should 
have  taken  such  a  view  of  her  friendship  with  Amaldi  and 


530  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

ventured  to  speak  with  her  about  it.  Not  that  for  a  mo 
ment  she  felt  any  anxiety  in  regard  to  what  "people" 
might  think  and  say.  It  was  only  by  chance  that  Amaldi 
had  come  twice  to  see  her  within  so  short  a  time.  Usually 
there  was  at  least  a  fortnight's  lapse  between  his  visits — 
sometimes  more.  But  Lady  Wychcote's  view  of  the  whole 
matter  had  left  a  smirch  on  what  was  so  clean  and  fine. 
The  bright  mirror  of  friendship  had  been  breathed  upon. 
The  image  in  it  was  blurred  by  this  evil  breath.  And 
though  she  gave  no  hint  of  what  had  passed,  or  what  she 
was  feeling,  Amaldi  knew  quite  well  that  something  had 
disturbed  her.  lie  kept  this  knowledge  to  himself,  how 
ever.  What  she  did  not  give  him  freely  he  did  not  want. 
And  alas !  he  wanted  so  much  that  she  did  not  give  him  in 
any  wise.  His  first  delight  in  feeling  that  she  was  wholly 
her  own  again  had  died  down.  This  masque  of  friendship, 
in  which  she  was  whole-souled  and  he  half-hearted,  became 
an  anguish.  He  doubted  his  strength  to  keep  it  up.  Some 
times  he  thought  that  it  would  be  more  endurable  to  blurt 
out  the  truth  and  go  into  banishment.  lie  felt  often  that 
he  would  prefer  the  violent,  final  wound  of  severance 
to  the  long,  eked  out  pain  of  being  near  her  only  as  a 
friend. 

Then  one  day  in  August  he  went  to  Breene,  and  as  soon 
as  he  saw  Sophy  felt  sure  that  some  crisis  was  upon  them 
both. 

In  fact  she  had  just  received  the  following  letter  from 
Lady  Wychcote: 

"My  dear  Sophy,  you  must  pardon  me  for  breaking 
through  my  resolve,  this  once,  and  alluding  to  a  matter 
which  I  had  seriously  intended  never  mentioning  to  you 
again.  Clara  Knowles  came  to  call  on  me  to-day.  As  you 
probably  know  she  has  one  of  the  most  venomous  tongues 
in  England.  She  had  barely  said  'How  d'ye  do'  before 
she  flooded  me  with  enquiries  as  to  who  was  the  'foreigner 
that  was  making  such  running  with  Sophy  Chesney. '  (I 
quote  her  own  elegant  expressions.)  She  said  that  'The 
Barton-Savidges'  (a  family  also  famed  for  scandal-mong- 
ering)  'vowed  that  he  was  always  either  turning  in  at  the 
Breene  lodge  gates,  or  coming  out  of  them.'  Olive  Arun- 
del  they  said  was  'gooseberry.'  She  asked  if  it  were  true 
that  he  was  a  bigamist.  And  whether  you  really  belonged 
to  a  'free  love  league'  in  the  States  as  she  had  heard.  I 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  531 

will  not  quote  more  of  her  disgusting  jargon.  I  only  write 
this  much  of  it,  that  you  may  see  my  apprehensions  on  your 
behalf  were  not  without  reason."  The  rest  of  the  letter 
was  confined  to  inquiries  about  Bobby,  and  suggestions  as 
to  a  special  method  of  German,  which  had  been  recom 
mended  to  her  by  an  ex-Secretary  of  Foreign  Affairs, 
whose  grandson  was,  at  sixteen,  proficient  in  four  modern 
languages,  etc.,  etc. 

This  letter  filled  Sophy  with  rebellious  anger,  yet  at  the 
same  time  she  realised  that  it  had  to  be  considered  seri 
ously.  The  most  painful  part  of  all  was  that  she  felt  that 
she  must  speak  about  it  to  Amaldi.  Despite  all  her  natural 
independence,  she  could  not  defy  conventionality  to  the 
extent  of  allowing  their  friendship  to  give  rise  to  such 
odious  gossip.  And  she  thought  how  strange  and  almost 
tragic  it  was,  that  the  only  breath  of  scandal  that  had  ever 
touched  her  should  be  caused  by  the  one  perfectly  clear, 
passionless  affection  of  her  life. 

She  told  him  of  the  letter  as  they  walked  in  the  beech 
wood  beyond  the  garden. 

"  It 's  only  what  we  might  have  foreseen  in  this  crowded, 
narrow-minded  place ! ' '  she  ended  bitterly. 

Amaldi,  who  was  stripping  the  fronds  of  a  dead  leaf  that 
he  had  picked  up,  kept  his  eyes  on  it.  He  did  not  say  any 
thing  for  a  second  or  two,  then  he  observed  in  that  level, 
withheld  voice  that  she  knew  meant  intense  feeling: 

"I'm  afraid  we  might  have  expected  it  in  any  place." 

' '  Oh,  Amaldi ! — no ! ' '  she  exclaimed  indignantly. 

"I'm.  afraid  so,"  he  repeated. 

They  were  seated  now  on  a  felled  log.  Through  the  in 
cessant  quivering  of  the  nervous  leaves  they  could  see  the 
gleam  of  the  pond  sunk  in  wreaths  of  loose-strife — the 
"long  purples"  of  Ophelia's  garland.  It  was  all  white 
and  blue  with  the  August  sky.  Except  for  the  sound  of 
blowing  leaves  the  wood  was  very  still.  This  stillness 
seemed  to  make  it  all  more  embarrassing  and  hateful  some 
how.  Sophy  sat  chin  on  hand,  staring  at  the  shining  pond. 
Other  things  that  must  be  put  into  words  were  impossible 
to  utter  just  then. 

Amaldi  broke  the  silence. 

"I  suppose,"  he  said  in  that  expressionless  voice,  "that 
we  shall  have  to  stop  seeing  each  other — for  the  present  at 
least." 


532  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

This  was  just  what  Sophy  had  shrunk  from  saying.  She 
answered  very  dejectedly : 

"I  ...  I  suppose  so.  Yes  .  .  .  it's  the  only  thing  to  do 
of  course."  Then  she  broke  out  in  her  impetuous  way: 
"Oh,  how  hateful  and  unnecessary  it  all  is! — how  humiliat 
ing — and  how  sad.  ...  I  did  think  that  friendship  would 
be  left  me.  .  .  ." 

There  were  tears  in  her  voice.  Amaldi  turned  suddenly 
and  looked  at  her.  The  moment  that  she  saw  his  eyes  she 
knew  what  was  coming. 

"I've  failed  you,  too,"  he  said.  "It  isn't  friendship 
that  I  feel  for  you.  ..." 

As  her  eyes  fell  away  from  his,  he  added  passionately: 
' '  How  could  it  be  otherwise  ?  .  .  .  How  could  it  be  ?  .  .  . " 

And  all  at  once  it  wa.s  revealed  to  Sophy  that  he  was 
right — that  she  had  been  blind  and  mistaken  once  again  to 
an  almost  incredible  degree.  She  sat  dumb  with  pain, 
knowing  less  than  ever  what  to  say.  And  her  pain  told 
her  that  he  was  very,  very  dear  to  her,  and  yet  that  she 
recoiled  from  the  mere  idea  of  love  more  violently  than 
ever.  But  there  was  no  half  way  here,  she  must  renounce 
him  if  she  could  not  return  his  love. 

Amaldi  went  on: 

"It  had  to  come.  I  meant  to  tell  you.  I  hoped  that  I 
would  be  strong  enough  .  .  .  but  I'm  not.  It's  beyond 
me.  ...  I  can 't  endure  it — this  being  near  you  .  .  .  know 
ing  you  are  free  .  .  .  loving  you  .  .  .  loving  you  .  .  . 
having  only  your  friendship.  No  man  could  endure  it 
...  no  real  man.  ..." 

He  broke  off.  The  next  instant  he  said,  "Forgive  me.  It 
seems  brutal  to  speak  so  ...  so  bluntly — but  at  least 
there  must  be  truth  between  us. ' ' 

Sophy  said  in  a  choked  voice: 

"If  you  think  all  the  suffering  is  yours  .  .  .  you  .  .  . 
you  are  mistaken,  Amaldi." 

"Forgive  me  .  .  ."he  repeated. 

"And  .  .  .  and  ..."  she  stumbled  on,  "you  speak  of 
my  being  free  .  .  .  but  even  if  ...  if  things  were  .  .  . 
different  .  .  .  you  are  not  free.  ..." 

' '  Do  you  mean  if  you  .  .  .  loved  me  ? "  said  Amaldi. 

"Yes,"  she  murmured,  colouring  deeply. 

He  flushed,  too,  then  paled. 

' '  In  that  case  I  should  soon  free  myself, ' '  he  said. 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  533 

Sophy  glanced  up  at  him  in  amazement,  then  down  again. 

"But  .  .  .  there  is  no  divorce  in  Italy  ..."  she  stam 
mered. 

"An  Italian  can  be  naturalised  in  Switzerland  and  di 
vorced  there,"  he  rejoined,  steadying  his  voice  with  an 
effort. 

All  at  once  her  face  quivered,  she  put  up  her  hands  to 
hide  it.  Then  she  whispered  brokenly : 

"You  would  do  that  for  me?" 

"It  would  be  nothing  ...  if  you  loved  me,"  he  an 
swered. 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment  or  two.  Then  it  broke 
from  him  again. 

" I  couldn 't  go  on  acting  to  you  .  .  .  lying  to  you.  .  .  ." 

"Oh,  I  know  ...  I  know  .  .  ^"  she  answered. 

Suddenly  he  was  on  his  knees  beside  her.  He  caught  her 
hands  and  held  them  to  his  breast. 

"Can't  it  ever  be  different?"  he  was  stammering. 
"Can't  it  ever  be  different?  Some  time  .  .  .  after  years 
maybe  ?  ...  Is  there  no  love  in  you  for  me  ?  .  .  .  None 
at  all?" 

But  as  he  knelt  there  beside  her  stammering  with  the 
ardour  of  his  long  suppressed  love,  it  was  Loring  that 
Sophy  thought  of — Loring  who  had  also  knelt  beside  her 
in  desperate  appeal.  She  blanched  with  the  confused,  hu 
miliating  pain  of  it. 

"Oh,  don't  you  see  .  .  .  don't  you  see,"  she  pleaded. 
"I  haven't  any  love  to  give.  .  .  .  How  could  I  have ?  .  .  ." 
She  drew  away  her  hands  and  pressed  them  to  her  own 
breast.  "I'm  like  a  dead  thing  ..."  she  said  desperately, 
"dead  .  .  .  cold.  .  .  ." 

He  rose  and  walked  away  from  her,  stood  thinking  for  a 
little,  then  came  back.  Still  standing,  he  looked  down  at 
her  bent  head. 

"Tell  me  this  at  least,"  he  said,  "if  we  had  met  ...  at 
first  .  .  .  before  things  happened  in  both  our  lives  .  .  . 
do  you  think  that  you  might  have  .  .  .  cared  for  me  ? ' ' 

Sophy  did  not  answer  at  once.  Her  past  was  rushing 
before  her.  Then  she  sprang  impulsively  to  her  feet. 

"Yes,  Amaldi,  yes  ..."  she  said.  "When  we  were 
both  young  ...  if  we  had  met  then.  .  .  .  Oh,  how  beauti 
ful  life  could  have  been  for  us!" 

Amaldi  started  forward,  then  drew  back.    His  eyes  con- 


534  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

fused  her.  She  stood  there,  rather  overwhelmed  by  her 
own  outburst,  looking  down  again  now  at  the  tip  of  one 
shoe  which  she  moved  nervously  from  side  to  side  among 
the  last  year 's  leaves.  He  said  in  a  low  voice : 

' '  That  makes  it  easier  to  say  '  good-by '  .  .  .  and  harder. 
I  ..." 

He  stopped  short.  She  forced  herself  to  ask  for  how 
long  he  meant  to  be  gone. 

"  I  think  a  year  .  .  .  two  years,  perhaps,  would  be  best, " 
he  answered  heavily.  The  next  instant  he  put  it  more 
lightly  :  "  I  've  always  wanted  to  travel  for  some  years  in 
strange  lands.  I  might  come  back  a  more  satisfactory 
'friend'  .  .  .  who  knows?" 

"Don't  ..."  said  Sophy,  blind  with  tears  now. 

She  could  never  remember  clearly  how  they  parted.  He 
promised  to  write  her  of  his  plans  as  soon  as  he  had  de 
cided  on  them.  Walking  back  through  the  garden,  they 
met  Sue  Pickett  and  Bobby.  They  were  not  alone  again 
until  he  left  for  London. 


XLIX 

THE  next  two  days  passed  very  unhappily  for  Sophy.  She 
ached  with  the  ice  of  her  flesh  and  the  wild  flame  of  her 
spirit.  Some  part  of  her  being  was  knitted  so  closely  with 
Amaldi's,  that  this  tearing  asunder  of  their  lives  caused 
her  anguish. 

On  the  morning  of  the  third  day,  however,  something 
happened  that  gave  things  a  sharp  wrench  in  a  new  direc 
tion.  Sophy  had  always  been  very  indifferent  about  read 
ing  newspapers.  So  the  morning  papers  were  always  laid 
at  Susan's  plate.  They  chanced  to  be  breakfasting  alone, 
and  as  Sue  was  glancing  over  the  Times,  she  flushed  sud 
denly  and  an  exclamation  broke  from  her. 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Sophy,  deathly  afraid,  she  knew  not 
of  what. 

It  had  to  be  told.  Susan  bungled  it  so,  that  Sophy 
caught  the  paper  from  her  and  read  for  herself.  This  was 
the  item: 

"A  very  shocking  accident  occurred  last  night  in  front  of  White's. 
The  Marquis  Amaldi,  a  distinguished  Italian  nobleman,  well  known 
here  in  both  social  and  musical  circles,  was  struck  by  a  motor  car  as 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  535 

he  was  crossing  the  street.  He  was  unconscious  when  he  was  taken 
to  his  lodgings,  which,  fortunately,  are  near  by  in  Clarges  Street. 
The  friend  who  was  with  him  would  not  allow  him  to  be  removed  to 
an  hospital.  Later  reports  say  that  the  Marquis  has  recovered  con 
sciousness  but  that  his  injuries  are  serious." 

Sophy  laid  down  the  paper  without  a  word,  and  her  face 
terrified  Susan. 

"My  dear  .  .  .  don't  go  thinking  the  worst,"  she  stam 
mered.  "You  know  how  newspapers  exaggerate!" 

"Not  in  England  .  .  ."  said  Sophy  dully. 

Then  she  caught  her  breath.  It  was  as  if  she  had  shot 
suddenly  to  the  surface  of  some  black  pool,  and  gasped  in 
air  again. 

""Will  you  go  with  me  to  London?"  she  asked  in  that 
dead  voice,  keeping  her  eyes  on  the  paper. 

Susan  went  pale. 

' '  Oh,  child !  .  .  .  Think  a  minute  ..."  she  protested. 

' '  Well  ...  if  I  must  go  alone  ..."  said  Sophy,  and  as 
she  spoke  she  got  to  her  feet. 

' '  No,  no ! — You  shall  never  go  alone,  Sophy ! ' ' 

"Then  you '11  come?" 

"Yes,"  said  Susan  despairingly.  She  felt  there  was  no 
use  in  arguing  it,  yet  as  she  went  upstairs  with  Sophy  to 
change  her  gown,  she  tried  once  more.  ' '  Sophy,  darling — 
I  know — I  understand  how  you  feel,"  she  said.  "But 
think,  dear — think  what  it  would  be  if  some  one  saw  you 
.  .  .  there.  ...  If  it  got  to  Lady  Wychcote's  ears.  .  .  . 
Oh,  child!  ...  I'm  so  mortally  afraid  of  some  dreadful 
tragedy  coming  out  of  all  this  for  you.  ..." 

"Don't  you  think  the  tragedy's  dreadful  enough  as  it 
is?"  asked  Sophy  rather  wildly.  She  looked  for  a  moment 
as  if  she  were  about  to  break  into  crazy  laughter.  Then 
she  held  her  face  tight  in  both  hands. 

"Go  and  dress  ..."  she  muttered  thickly  after  a  sec 
ond.  "Go  and  order  the  carriage.  .  .  .  There's  a  train 
in  twenty  minutes.  ...  It  will  take  us  more  than  ten  min 
utes  to  drive  to  the  station.  ..." 

The  two  women  reached  Amaldi's  lodgings  about  eleven 
o'clock.  His  Milanese  servant,  Piero,  opened  the  door.  He 
looked  grave  and  rather  worried,  but  for  the  first  time  hope 
glimmered  in  Sophy  when  she  saw  his  face. 

"The  Marchese  .  .  .?"  she  managed  to  ask. 

Her  voice  was  like  the  shadow  of  a  voice.     Piero  said 


536  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

that  Don  Giovanni  was  asleep  under  an  opiate.  The  doc 
tors  had  just  gone.  They  did  not  think  the  injuries  as 
serious  as  they  had  thought  last  night.  .  .  .  But  Sophy 
was  scarcely  listening. 

"  'Don  Giovanni'?"  she  repeated  haltingly. 

"Si,  Signora  .  .  .  the  brother  of  the  Marchese.  He  ar 
rived  in  England  for  a  short  visit  only  yesterday  morning. 
Eh,  Santa  Maria !  .  .  .  a  sad  visit  it  has  proved.  ..." 

He  begged  the  ladies  to  be  seated  while  he  went  to  tell 
his  master  of  their  coming. 

As  he  left  the  room,  Sophy  turned  to  Susan.  "Sue 
..."  she  said.  "Forgive  me  ...  but  I  must  see  him 
alone  .  .  .  just  for  a  few  minutes.  I  won't  be  long." 

"But,  Sophy  ..." 

"I  won't  be  long,  dear,  I  promise  .  .  .  only  a  few  min 
utes  .  .  .  but  I  must  ...  I  must  see  him  alone  .  .  .  just 
at  first.  .  .  ." 

She  was  so  determined  that  poor  Susan  felt  she  had  no 
choice.  She  went  out  into  the  hall,  misery  and  dread  in 
her  heart — not  for  anything  that  she  feared  between  Sophy 
and  Amaldi — she  knew  them  both  too  well  for  that — but 
lest  some  malevolent  eyes  might  have  seen  Sophy  go  in 
.  .  .  might  watch  for  her  coming  out. 

Sophy  had  not  mentioned  their  names,  or  given  any 
cards  to  Piero,  and  he  was  too  discreet  a  person  to  ask 
questions.  When,  therefore,  he  announced  to  Amaldi  that 
there  were  visitors  for  him,  he  said  merely,  "due  signore" 
(two  ladies). 

Amaldi  came  in  to  find  Sophy  standing  alone  in  the 
middle  of  the  room,  her  hands  locked  tight  together,  and 
her  eyes  fixed  on  the  door  by  which  he  entered.  The  next 
instant  he  was  close  to  her,  and  she  was  faltering  out : 

"I  thought  you  were  .  .  .  dead.  .  .  .  Then  I 
knew  .  .  ." 

"What?  .  .  .  You  knew  .  .  .  what?"  he  said  dazedly. 

She  kept  her  eyes  on  his — they  looked  scared  and  brave 
and  piteous  at  the  same  time. 

"That  I  ...  cared  for  you  .  .  .  more  than  I 
knew.  ..." 

Things  went  black  before  Amaldi  for  a  second.  He  had 
been  through  a  hideous  night  with  poor  Nano.  He  had 
seen  him  lying  on  the  pavement  drenched  with  blood — 
dead  to  all  appearance.  Then  had  come  the  long  hours  of 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  537 

waiting  for  the  doctors'  verdict.  Then  the  shock  of  hope 
after  the  long  vigil.  Now  this.  .  .  . 

He  mastered  himself,  thinking  that  he  could  not  have 
taken  her  meaning  rightly. 

"It  was  .  .  .  like  you  ...  to  come  .  .  ."  he  said  al 
most  stupidly.  He  felt  stupefied,  not  equal  to  grasping  the 
situation  fitly. 

But  now  Sophy  held  out  her  locked  hands  to  him.  Her 
white  face  flushed  and  quivered. 

"Marco  .  .  .  don't  you  understand?"  she  whispered. 
"  I  ...  I  want  you  to  know  .  .  .  that  I  ..."  She  caught 
her  breath.  "...  It's  ...  it's  ...  love,  Marco.  ..." 

A  profound  instinct  told  him  not  to  touch  her.  The 
black  mist  closed  down  again  for  an  instant.  His  bewil 
dered,  haggard  face  went  to  her  heart.  Close  to  him, 
trembling,  her  eyes  still  courageous  and  timid  at  the  same 
time,  she  laid  one  hand  upon  his  breast. 

"Dearest, "  she  said,  "don't  look  like  that  .  .  .  as  if  you 
couldn't  believe  me  .  .  .  you'll  have  to  be  very  patient 
with  me.  ..." 

She  put  down  her  forehead  suddenly  on  the  hand  that 
still  rested  against  his  breast,  and  began  to  cry  softly  and 
restrainedly,  like  an  overtaxed  child.  Then  his  arms  went 
round  her,  but  very  lightly,  as  if  she  were  indeed  a 
wounded  child  that  he  was  afraid  of  hurting. 

"Forgive  me  ...  I  can't  help  it  .  .  ."  she  kept  mur 
muring.  "To  find  you  alive  .  .  .  alive.  ..." 

The  words  choked  into  sobs.  He  stood  holding  her  in 
that  light,  gentle  embrace  silently.  He  could  not  have 
spoken  though  both  their  lives  depended  on  it.  Presently 
she  lifted  her  head  from  his  breast  and  glanced  up  at  him. 
His  face  awed  her.  There  was  a  look  on  it  that  made  it 
quite  beautiful  and  rather  strange.  The  look  of  one  who 
sees  with  other  than  bodily  vision. 

When  she  said  timidly  a  moment  later  that  she  must  be 
going  now,  he  did  not  try  to  detain  her,  only  lifted  the 
hand  that  had  lain  upon  his  breast,  and  held  it  to  his  lips, 
then  to  his  eyes  a  moment. 

In  some  natures  tenderness  springs  from  passion ;  in 
others  passion  can  only  flower  from  tenderness.  Sophy 
was  of  the  latter  type.  With  all  her  capacity  for  suffer 
ing,  she  could  never  have  felt  the  excoriating  pain  of  the 


538  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

being  bound  by  sensual  fascination  to  another  whom  it 
knows  to  be  despicable.  This  quality  in  the  very  essence 
of  her  nature  was  the  secret  of  her  ardent  ventures  in  love 
and  her  equally  ardent  recoils  from  it. 

But  though  her  present  love  for  Amaldi  was  all  tender 
ness  there  was  in  it  also  such  anguish  as  passion  sometimes 
brings.  Pure  as  it  was,  almost  mystic  in  its  exaltation, 
it  yet  shamed  her  to  herself.  Was  she  then  the  sort  of 
woman  who  loves,  and  loves  and  loves  indefinitely?  She 
fought  her  way  out  of  this  doubt,  only  to  stand  confounded 
and  miserable  before  the  bald  fact  that  she  had  had  two 
husbands,  one  of  whom  was  still  living,  and  yet,  that  in  a 
future  no  matter  how  vague  and  distant,  she  contemplated 
taking  another.  "It  must  be  a  long,  long  time  ..."  she 
had  written  Amaldi  after  those  moments  in  Clarges  Street. 
"Years  and  years,  perhaps.  It  isn't  that  I  shrink  from 
you,  my  dear  one — oh,  you  know  that ! — but  from  the 
thought  of  marriage  with  any  one.  I  can 't  help  it,  dearest. 
I  told  you  that  you  would  need  all  your  patience  with 
me —  Yes — I  shall  try  you  sorely  I  'm  afraid.  I  wonder 
— but  no — when  I  think  of  your  love  for  me,  I  feel  that  I 
have  never  before  known  real  love.  And  see  how  selfish 
I  am  with  you !  This  is  your  reward — a  cruel  egoist,  who 
can't  give  you  up — who  can't  give  you  herself.  That  is 
the  truth,  Marco.  It  isn't  that  I  will  not — I  cannot.  Be 
sides " 

Here  she  had  laid  aside  her  pen  in  despair.  It  was  the 
thought  of  Bobby  that  had  come  to  her.  How  tragic  and 
ridiculous  to  think  of  giving  her  son  two  fathers  besides 
the  real  father  who  had  died  when  he  was  a  baby!  Yes, 
this  thought  was  nothing  less  than  hideous.  The  absurdity 
in  it  was  grim  as  the  risus  sardonicus.  And  yet — and 
yet —  Like  poor  Desdemona  she  perceived  here  a  di 
vided  duty.  This  duty  to  her  son  was  tremendous — yet  was 
there  not  also  a  duty  towards  the  man  who  had  loved  her 
for  long  years,  whom  she  had  told  that  she  loved  in  re 
turn  ?  Perhaps,  when  Bobby  had  grown  up —  Yes,  that 
would  make  things  different.  But  could  any  man  be  con 
stant  for  all  those  added  years — had  she  a  right  to  ask  such 
constancy  ?  And  even  then — to  take  a  third  husband !  The 
words  of  Christ  to  the  woman  of  Samaria  came  back  to 
her:  "...  Thou  hast  well  said,  I  have  no  husband.  For 
thou  hast  had  five  husbands;  and  he  whom  thou  now  hast, 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  539 

is  not  thy  husband."  .  .  .  Five  husbands  or  three  .  .  . 
what  real  difference  was  there?  She  felt  stunned  with 
self-abasement  and  misery.  A  voice  within  her  kept  cry 
ing  :  ' '  Too  late !  too  late ! ' '  But  when  she  thought  of  her 
life  without  him  it  seemed  vain  and  empty.  Even  the 
thought  of  her  son  could  not  fill  that  void. 

Nano  Amaldi's  injuries  proved  far  less  serious  than  was 
at  first  believed.  Within  ten  days  after  his  accident  he 
was  able  to  travel,  and  he  and  Marco  went  together  to  stop 
with  their  mother  on  the  Brenta,  near  Venice — where  she 
had  taken  a  friend 's  villa  for  the  months  of  September  and 
October. 

From  this  place  Amaldi  wrote  to  Sophy,  asking  her  if  it 
would  not  be  possible  for  her  to  come  to  Venice  during  the 
autumn.  His  mother  longed  to  see  her,  and  people  could 
hardly  talk  if  they  met  occasionally  under  such  circum 
stances.  He  also  told  her  in  this  letter  that  Barti,  the 
family  lawyer,  had  gone  to  Switzerland  to  inquire  about 
the  formalities  necessary  for  the  divorce. 

Sophy  had  intended  going  to  Italy  in  September.  Now 
it  seemed  to  her  that  there  could  be  no  objection  to  her 
choosing  Venice  as  a  stopping  place.  She  longed  to  talk 
with  the  old  Marchesa  almost  as  much  as  she  longed  to 
see  Amaldi.  To  talk  with  his  mother  would  lift  some  of 
the  load  of  doubt  and  pain  from  her  heart,  she  thought. 

But  when  she  mentioned  this  plan  to  her  cousin,  Sue 
looked  anxious.  She  was  thinking  of  Lady  Wychcote — of 
what  she  might  think  and  say  when  she  heard  that  Sophy 
was  going  to  Italy.  Her  native  shrewdness  would  lead  her 
to  surmise  something  very  like  the  truth,  Sue  felt  sure, 
while  her  dislike  for  Sophy  would  cause  her  to  put  the 
worst  construction  on  it. 

However,  to  her  great  relief,  Lady  Wychcote  took  the 
news  of  the  projected  trip  to  Venice  with  composure.  She 
was  even  affable  about  it  and  said  in  a  letter  on  the  subject 
that  she  envied  Sophy  the  pleasure  of  seeing  Venice  for  the 
first  time,  and  of  being  out  of  England  during  September. 
But  as  Susan  pondered  this  letter  afterwards,  something 
in  its  very  affability  made  her  nervous.  It  struck  her  as 
odd  that  Lady  Wychcote,  after  having  called  Sophy's  at 
tention  so  insistently  to  the  danger  of  possible  gossip  about 
her  and  Amaldi,  and  now  knowing  that  there  actually  had 


540  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

been  gossip  on  the  subject,  should  suddenly  hear  without 
protest  of  any  kind  that  Sophy  intended  going  to  Italy. 
If  Susan  had  been  aware  of  the  fact  that  Lady  Wychcote 
also  knew  of  Sophy's  visit  to  Araaldi's  lodgings,  she  would 
have  returned  to  America  rather  than  have  gone  with  her 
to  Venice. 

Lady  Wychcote  did  know  of  it,  however,  and  from  a  sure 
source — from  her  own  brother,  Colonel  Bollingham,  a  re 
tired  and  grouchy  old  Anglo-Indian,  who  had  always  taken 
Sophy  at  his  sister's  valuation  and  had  no  more  love  for 
her  than  had  her  ladyship. 

He  had  chanced  to  be  passing  on  the  other  side  of  the 
street  when  Sophy  and  Susan  got  out  of  their  cab  before 
Amaldi's  lodgings.  His  sister  had  talked  with  him  about 
her  fears  in  that  regard.  The  accident,  of  which  he  had 
read  that  morning,  caused  him  to  put  two  and  two  together 
—making  a  round  dozen,  after  the  custom  of  his  type  of 
arithmetician. 

"The  little  hussy  .  .  ."he  muttered,  as  the  two  figures 
disappeared  within  a  house  opposite.  "  'Clarges  Street' 
.  .  .  So  it  was,  b'gad!" 

He  posted  forthwith  to  Dynehurst  with  this  news.  After 
the  first  start  of  surprise  at  his  disclosure,  her  ladyship 
showed  a  calmness  that  quite  outraged  him. 

"Gad?  .  .  .  Cissy!  .  .  .  You  take  it  damn  coolly,  'pon 
my  word  ! ' '  said  he. 

"I  am  thinking,"  replied  Lady  Wychcote  quietly.  "It 
requires  a  great  deal  of  thought  .  .  .  such  a  thing  as  you 
have  just  told  me,  James." 

"The  devil  it  does!"  exclaimed  the  irascible  Colonel. 
"...  Bundle  her  out  on  the  double-quick,  say  I !  What 
the  deuce !  ...  Is  a  woman  like  that  to  have  the  upbring 
ing  of  your  only  grandson?" 

His  sister  regarded  his  inflamed  countenance  with  lenient 
sarcasm. 

"  'Bundling  out'  is  doubtless  a  simple  matter  in  the 
army,  James,"  said  she.  "But  you  wouldn't  find  it  quite 
so  simple  in  this  case.  The  Court  would  hardly  deprive  a 
woman  of  the  guardianship  of  her  child  because  she'd  been 
seen  to  go  ...  with  another  woman  ...  to  inquire  after 
an  injured  man  .  .  .  ostensibly  a  friend  .  .  .  who  may  or 
may  not  be  her  lover.  ..." 

The  Colonel  bumbled  like  an  angry  hornet.    "Who's  this 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  541 

other  woman,  anyhow?"  demanded  he.  Then  answered 
himself  as  crusty  old  gentlemen  so  often  do.  "In  my  opin 
ion  she's  only  a  common  ..."  The  Colonel's  language 
became  very  Anglo-Indian  indeed. 

But  Lady  Wychcote  succeeded  in  calming  him  down  and 
finally  persuading  him  that  her  method  would  be  the 
wisest  and  surest. 

It  was  on  a  day  all  magical  with  shine  and  storm  that 
Sophy  journeyed  to  Venice  across  the  Lombard  plain.  As 
they  neared  the  sea  one-half  the  sky  was  thunderous  blue, 
one-half  like  golden  crystal.  Green  marsh  lands  spread  in 
gentle  melancholy  beneath.  Suddenly  two  orange  sails  in 
sunlight  unfurled  their  burning  petals  against  the  green. 
And  these  great,  burning  sail-petals,  drifting  slowly  along 
hidden  waterways  across  the  sad,  green  reaches,  lent  a 
thrill  as  of  the  passionate  mystery  of  the  sea  to  the  tranquil 
inland. 

There  was  more  pain  than  joy  for  Sophy  in  this  beauty. 
One  should  first  see  Venice  with  first  love  in  one's  heart, 
not  third  love,  she  told  herself  bitterly.  And  she  was  glad 
that  she  had  written  Amaldi  not  to  meet  her.  As  much  as 
she  longed  to  see  him,  she  was  relieved  to  think  that  she 
would  have  some  hours  in  which  to  adjust  her  mood  to  this 
rather  overwhelming  loveliness  before  seeing  him  again. 
As  they  went  up  the  Grand  Canal  towards  the  Rio  San  Vio, 
where  she  had  taken  a  flat,  the  Vesper  bells  began  to  ring. 
A  feeling  of  sadness,  almost  of  apprehension,  stole  over 
her.  The  clear,  liquid  voices  of  the  bells  seemed  warning 
her  of  something.  She  began  to  wonder  if  she  had  been 
right  to  come  to  Venice.  .  .  . 

But  the  next  day  when  she  saw  Amaldi  she  was  glad 
again.  This  love  that  he  gave  her  was  very  wonderful. 
She  remembered,  wincing,  how  she  had  once  longed  for 
Loring  to  give  her  a  love  like  that  of  the  old  Romaunts. 
Now  this  love  was  really  hers.  Yet  she  felt  that  she  was 
cruel  to  accept  it — taking  so  much  yet  willing  to  give  so 
little ;  for  when  she  saw  Amaldi  this  first  time  after  telling 
him  that  she  cared  "more  than  she  knew" — she  realised 
that  what  she  offered  him  was  indeed  the  shadow  of  a  flame. 
And  yet  .  .  .  she  could  not  give  him  up.  This  shadow 
was,  after  all,  cast  by  a  flame.  But  she  shivered,  thinking  of 
the  dreary  service  of  patience  that  she  demanded  of  him. 


542  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

Amaldi  on  his  side,  however,  was  quite  content  for  the 
present  with  the  fact  that  she  loved  him — that  this  love 
had  been  strong  enough  to  cause  her  to  tell  him  of  it.  He 
had  that  genius  of  passion  which  knows  how  to  wait.  When 
the  right  hour  struck  he  would  wait  no  longer,  he  told 
himself.  He  did  not  believe  for  a  moment  that  years 
would  have  to  pass  before  Sophy  would  come  to  him  as 
his  wife.  lie  did  not  wish  things  different.  It  would  have 
repelled  him  if  Sophy  could  have  shown  passionate  feeling 
for  him  so  soon  after  her  second  unhappy  marriage.  But 
some  day 

Barti  was  still  in  Switzerland.  There  were  some  points 
that  needed  clearing  up,  he  wrote,  but  he  and  the  Swiss 
lawyer  Beylau,  thought  that  all  could  be  arranged.  He 
expected  to  come  to  Venice  very  shortly. 

After  she  had  been  three  days  in  Venice,  Sophy  went 
by  gondola  up  the  Brenta  with  Amaldi  to  see  his  mother, 
who  had  been  confined  to  the  house  for  some  time  by  an 
attack  of  rheumatism.  Sue  and  Bobby  were  with  them. 
The  boy  seemed  as  fond  of  Amaldi  as  ever,  yet  every  now 
and  then  when  he  thought  that  others  were  not  noticing, 
he  looked  at  the  young  man  with  a  grave,  pondering  look. 
He  was  not  jealous  of  him,  yet  as  much  as  he  liked  him,  he 
was  hoping  that  "Mother  wouldn't  have  him  round  too 
much."  It  was  so  jolly  when  he  and  mother  went  for  larks 
quite  alone. 

From  the  moment  that  the  Marchesa  took  her  in  her 
arms  and  kissed  her  as  a  mother  kisses  her  daughter,  a 
weight  seemed  to  fall  from  Sophy's  heart.  There  was 
something  in  the  kiss  so  natural,  so  warm,  so  consoling.  It 
said  better  than  words  could  have  done,  "I  understand.  I 
approve.  Be  happy,  my  dear — be  happy." 

She  held  the  Marchesa  very  tight — his  mother  who  might 
some  day  be  her  mother.  Tears  sprang  in  spite  of  her. 
The  Marchesa  kissed  away  these  tears. 

"It  will  all  come  right,  dear — Speriamo  bene!"  she  mur 
mured,  smiling. 

But  the  next  day  something  occurred  that  cast  a  shadow 
over  all.  Susan  received  a  cable  from  America  telling  her 
that  her  only  sister  had  died  suddenly.  As  this  sister  was 
a  widow  and  left  three  little  children  Susan  felt  that  she 
must  go  to  America  at  once. 

When   Sophy  returned  from  seeing  her  cousin  off  for 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  543 

Genoa,  a  profound,  desolate  sadness  overcame  her — a  sense 
of  apprehension.  The  old  adage  kept  going  through  her 
mind:  "It  never  rains  but  it  pours."  She  could  not  get 
away  from  the  idea  that  other  painful  things  were  going 
to  happen.  Besides,  she  loved  Sue  dearly,  and  missed  her, 
and  would  miss  her  more  and  more.  The  thought  of  a 
paid  "companion"  filled  her  with  distaste.  Yet  she 
couldn't  now  stay  on  in  Venice  for  some  weeks,  as  she  had 
meant  to,  with  only  Bobby  and  Rosa.  Harold  Grey  had 
been  ill  with  influenza  and  would  not  join  them  until  Oc 
tober  ;  and  all  the  more  when  he  came  would  she  need  some 
woman  to  play  propriety. 

Intolerant  and  careless  of  the  world's  opinion  as  she 
was  too  apt  to  be,  she  felt  that  it  would  not  do  for  her  to 
remain  all  alone  in  Venice  with  Amaldi  as  her  only  ac 
quaintance  there.  But  then  she  felt  that  she  must  stay 
till  Barti  came.  She  couldn't  leave  Marco  anxious  and 
harassed  with  doubt,  for  during  the  last  few  days  she  had 
come  to  the  conclusion  that  he  was  far  more  anxious  about 
the  divorce  than  he  would  admit  to  her. 

.  .  .  Rain  was  falling.  With  slim,  grey-white  rods  it 
beat  the  surface  of  the  water.  She  could  see  it  rushing 
like  a  host  with  lances  down  the  Grand  Canal,  past  the 
palace  of  Don  Carlos.  Her  heart  grew  heavier  and 
heavier. 

Amaldi,  who  had  insisted  on  accompanying  Susan  to 
Genoa,  returned  two  days  later.  Something  preoccupied 
and  sad  in  his  manner  struck  Sophy. 

"What  is  it?"  she  urged.  "You  are  troubled.  Tell 
me." 

He  confessed  at  last  that  he  was  a  little  worried  at 
Barti 's  delay.  He  feared  that  there  might  be  some  seri 
ous  doubt  about  the  final  issue  of  the  question. 

"  Barti 's  a  good  soul,"  he  ended.  "Almost  too  soft 
hearted.  ...  I  can't  help  feeling  that  he's  rather  shirked 
telling  me  things,  perhaps  .  .  .  that  he's  still  shirking. 
I  can't  explain  this  delay  on  his  part,  in  any  other 
way.  .  .  ." 

He  broke  off  and  they  looked  at  each  other  rather 
blankly.  And  it  was  as  they  were  silently  looking  at  each 
other  in  that  sorrowful,  baffled  fashion  that  Rosa  ushered 
in  Lady  Wychcote. 

As  Sophy  went  forward  to  greet  her,  the  old  adage  again 


544  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

began  its  thrumming  in  her  mind:    "It  never  rains  but  it 
pours.   .   .  .  It  never  rains  but  it  pours.   .  .   ." 


HAD  Susan  been  present,  she  would  have  felt  very  appre 
hensive  at  the  pleasant,  matter-of-fact  way  in  which  her 
ladyship  greeted  Amaldi.  But  Sophy  was  simple-minded 
•enough  to  be  greatly  relieved  by  it.  She  explained  about 
Susan — that  Amaldi  had  just  returned  from  seeing  her 
off  for  America.  Lady  Wychcote  seemed  really  shocked 
to  hear  of  Miss  Pickett's  trouble. 

"And  what  a  loss  to  you,  too!"  she  said.  "I  can't  con 
ceive  of  anything  more  odious  than  having  a  hireling 
for  a  companion.  Of  course  you  will  have  a  com 
panion  .  .  .  ?" 

"Of  course!"  said  Sophy. 

Then  her  ladyship  explained  how  she  came  to  be  in 
Venice.  Her  brother,  Colonel  Bollingham,  and  his  wife 
had  persuaded  her  to  join  them  at  a  moment's  notice. 

Sophy  felt  that  now  Susan  was  gone,  she  ought  to  ask 
her  mother-in-law  to  stop  with  her.  She  did  so.  Lady 
Wychcote  said  thanks — but  that  it  would  hurt  poor  dear 
Mildred's  feelings  to  be  plants  like  that. 

"However,"  she  added,  "if  you're  going  to  be  here 
longer  than  a  week,  I  might  take  advantage  of  your  offer. 
James  and  Mildred  are  going  to  Bordighera  next  week 
.  .  .  and  I  detest  Bordighera.  ..." 

Sophy  replied,  with  a  hesitation  in  her  heart  which  she 
did  not  think  apparent  in  her  voice  but  which  Lady  Wych 
cote  discerned  there,  that  she  had  intended  stopping  for  at 
least  three  weeks  longer — but  now  that  Sue  had  gone  she 
thought  of  returning  to  Breene  in  a  few  days. 

"If  you  would  stay  with  me,  though,"  she  ended,  "then 
I  shouldn't  feel  that  I  had  to  hurry  off." 

"Thanks,"  said  Lady  Wychcote.  "I'll  let  you  know 
later." 

She  left  a  few  minutes  afterwards.  Amaldi  left  with 
her.  He  disliked  her  as  much  as  Susan  did,  and  felt  that 
he  must  be  very  careful  not  to  give  her  a  wrong  impression 
of  his  relations  with  Sophy. 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  545 

Later,  when  Sophy  came  to  reflect,  she  felt  as  apprehen 
sive  about  her  mother-in-law's  sudden  appearance  in  Ven 
ice  as  even  Susan  could  have  wished.  She  knew  that  un 
like  so  many  of  her  compatriots,  Lady  Wychcote  did  not 
care  a  fig  about  Italy.  On  the  contrary,  she  was  in  the 
habit  of  extolling  France  as  a  far  more  delightful  place  in 
every  way. 

During  the  following  week  Sophy  was  very  careful  not 
to  see  Amaldi  often,  and  went  about  a  good  deal  with  Lady 
Wychcote.  Barti  had  not  turned  up  yet. 

The  days  passed  in  this  rather  dreary  fashion,  until  the 
time  had  come  for  the  Bollinghams  to  leave.  They  were 
to  set  off  Tuesday  and  on  Tuesday  afternoon  Lady  Wych 
cote  was  to  come  to  the  Rio  San  Vio  to  stop  with  Sophy 
until  they  both  returned  to  England. 

On  Sunday  Barti  arrived  in  Venice.  He  was  a  short, 
rotund  man  of  about  sixty,  with  a  grizzled  black  beard, 
and  the  grey-blue  eyes  under  black  lashes  that  one  sees  so 
often  in  clever  Lombards.  He  loved  the  "ragazzi  Amaldi," 
as  he  called  them,  as  if  they  had  been  his  own  sons.  Marco 
had  confided  to  him  his  reasons  for  wishing  to  be  divorced. 
He  had  spoken  in  a  rather  dry,  curt  fashion,  but  Barti 
realised  fully  what  this  passion  must  mean  to  him.  Marco 
had  always  been  his  favourite  of  the  two  "boys,"  and  men 
of  the  type  of  Marco  did  not  change  the  views  of  a  life 
time  except  for  the  most  vital  reasons. 

As  soon  as  Amaldi  saw  Barti,  he  knew  that  the  lawyer 
had  no  very  reassuring  news  to  give  him.  They  met  at 
Barti 's  hotel  in  his  bedroom  so  as  to  be  quite  private. 

"Well?"  said  Amaldi. 

Barti  began  skirting  the  subject  from  different  points  of 
view.  It  seemed  that  in  Switzerland,  at  that  date,  pro 
ceedings  for  divorce  on  the  ground  of  adultery  had  to  be 
brought  within  six  months  of  the  knowledge  of  the  fact. 
So  that  Amaldi  would  not  be  able  to  obtain  divorce  in 
respect  of  his  wife's  original  misconduct  with  her  first 
lover.  He  could,  however,  obtain  the  divorce  in  respect 
of  any  subsequent  misconduct  of  hers  if  proceedings  were 
instituted  within  six  months  of  such  misconduct  becoming 
known  to  him. 

Here,  Amaldi,  who  had  been  very  pale,  flushed  darkly. 
He  parted  his  lips  as  if  to  speak,  and  the  old  lawyer  said 
nervously : 


546  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

"Wait  .  .  .  wait  just  a  moment,  caro  mio  .  .  .  there  are 
...  er  ...  other  difficulties.  ..." 

Amaldi  kept  silence.  He  sat  looking  out  of  the  window, 
and  now  his  face  was  quite  impassive ;  but  it  hurt  Barti  to 
see  the  strained  quiet  of  that  impassive  face.  These  "other 
difficulties"  that  he  had  to  tell  of  were  even  more  painful. 
He  went  on  to  state  them  as  rapidly  and  clearly  as  he 
could.  In  any  case,  as  they  knew  already,  in  order  to 
qualify  for  a  divorce  in  Switzerland  Amaldi  would  have 
to  become  a  Swiss  citizen.  To  do  so,  he  would  have  to  get 
the  consent  of  the  local  authority  and  the  State  authority. 
The  first  was  comparatively  easy,  the  second  exceedingly 
difficult  to  obtain.  As  Marco  might  remember,  a  famous 
Italian  author  had  attempted  to  divorce  his  wife  in  this 
way,  but  the  Swiss  Government  decided  that  they  would 
not  let  their  citizenship  be  obtained  for  such  an  object. 

Amaldi  here  interrupted  quietly. 

"Then,  my  dear  Barti,"  he  said,  "I  have  only  to  thank 
you  for  all  your  trouble.  I  don 't  see  that  we  need  discuss 
the  matter  any  further.  ..." 

"Pazienza  .  .  .  Pazienza!  .  .  ."  murmured  Barti.  "On 
the  contrary  .  .  .  there  are  many  things  to  consider  ..." 

"I  don't  see  ..."  Amaldi  began  rather  vehemently. 

"Prcgo  .  .  .  but  7  see.  .  .  .  You  must  allow  me,"  re 
turned  the  other.  "This  is  painful,  I  know  .  .  .  for  me 
as  well  as  for  you  .  .  ."he  added,  with  some  feeling. 

Amaldi  said  in  a  different  tone,  but  without  looking  at 
him: 

"Yes.    I  know  it  is.    Forgive  me.    Goon." 

Barti  then  said  that  it  might  be  possible  for  the  citizen 
ship  to  be  obtained  without  the  disclosure  of  its  object, 
though  this  would  be  extraordinarily  difficult. 

"In  fact,"  he  wound  up,  "I  am  afraid  that  in  your  case 
it  would  be  practically  impossible.  The  head  of  a  noble 
Italian  family  does  not  apply  for  Swiss  citizenship  without 
some  very  unusual  object,  and  in  my  opinion  the  authori 
ties  would  be  sure  to  demand  for  what  object  the  Marchese 
Amaldi  wished  to  become  a  Swiss." 

Amaldi  got  to  his  feet  this  time. 

"Then,  really  .  .  ."he  began. 

"Caro  Marco  .  .  .  I  beg  of  you  to  let  me  finish,"  pleaded 
Barti. 

He,  too,  was  pale  by  now,  and  he  snatched  off  his  eye- 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  547 

glasses,  breathing  nervously  upon  them,  and  squinting 
slightly  with  his  short-sighted  eyes,  in  the  stress  of  the 
moment. 

"Switzerland  is  not  the  only  country  in  the  world,"  he 
hurried  on,  polishing  and  repolishing  the  glasses  as  he 
spoke,  very  glad  not  to  be  able  to  see  Amaldi's  set,  white 
face  more  clearly.  "I  have  made  inquiries,  and  it  seems 
that  in  Hungary  ..." 

"  'Hungary'!"  echoed  Amaldi.  He  gave  a  short  laugh. 
"But  I  beg  your  pardon.  Go  on,  please  .  .  ."  he  said 
gravely  the  next  moment. 

' '  And  why  not  Hungary  ? ' '  Barti  demanded,  with  a  show 
of  impatience  which  he  was  far  from  feeling.  "For  my 
part,  I  think  I  should  prefer  a  Hungarian  citizenship.  It 
seems  that  in  Hungary  there  is  a  process  of  adoption  ..." 

Again  Amaldi  echoed  him. 

"  'Adoption'!"  he  exclaimed,  with  even  more  emphasis 
than  before.  "My  dear  Barti,  excuse  me — but  I  hadn't 
realised  that  the  thing  would  be  ridiculous  as  well  as  hu 
miliating.  ..." 

Then  he  checked  himself,  walking  to  and  fro  in  the 
small  room  several  times.  The  other  sat  watching  him  in 
silence. 

Presently  he  stopped  in  front  of  Barti  and  looked  down 
at  him  with  a  rather  wry  but  affectionate  smile. 

"Forgive  me,  dear  Barti,"  he  said.  "You've  gone  to 
no  end  of  trouble  for  me,  and  I  act  like  a  bad-tempered 
tousin.  Will  you  please  go  on  about  .  .  .  Hungary?" 

Barti  rushed  into  suggestions  now.  He  wished,  he  said, 
with  Amaldi's  consent,  to  go  forthwith  to  Hungary  and 
make  a  thorough  investigation  of  the  legal  questions  in 
volved. 

"Ma!  ...  Go  if  you  think  best,"  Amaldi  said,  when  he 
had  ended.  Then  added  with  irrepressible  bitterness: 
' '  After  all,  what  difference  does  it  make  to  what  country  I 
sell  my  birthright  ? ' ' 

"Caro  mio  .  .  .  caro  mio!  ..."  muttered  the  old  man, 
much  upset. 

"You  understand,  Barti,"  returned  Amaldi  quickly,  "I 
am  quite  determined  to  be  free  if  possible.  I  ..."  he 
hesitated,  then  went  on  emphatically :  "  I  count  it  a  small 
price  to  pay.  What  makes  me  bitter  is  that  an  Italian 
should  not  be  able  to  free  himself  from  a  worthless  woman 


548  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

in  his  own  country.     Yes,  Barti,  that  makes  me  bitter,  I 
confess. ' ' 

They  spoke  together  a  few  moments  longer.  When 
Amaldi  left,  it  had  been  decided  that  Barti  was  to  leave 
for  Buda-Pesth  that  night. 


LI 

ON  the  same  afternoon,  Amaldi  sent  Sophy  a  note,  saying 
that  he  had  some  important  things  that  he  would  like  to 
talk  over  with  her,  and  asking  if  she  would  not  go  with 
him  again  by  gondola  up  the  Brenta  to  see  his  mother. 

"I  feel,"  he  ended,  "that  we  could  talk  so  much  more 
quietly  in  the  old  garden  there.  Here  in  Venice  there  is 
always  some  interruption,  and  Lady  Wychcote  comes  to 
stop  with  you  on  Tuesday.  Then,  too,  it  would  be  such  a 
happiness  for  Baldi  to  see  you  again  in  this  way.  We 
could  be  back  in  Venice  by  six  o'clock." 

Sophy  thought  this  over.  She  felt  that  she  could  not 
refuse,  and  yet  she  hesitated.  But  she  knew  that  Barti 
had  returned.  She  was  sure  that  it  was  about  the  divorce 
that  Amaldi  wished  to  talk  with  her.  What  had  Barti 
said?  Was  the  divorce  in  Switzerland  impossible,  after 
all?  And  as  this  doubt  came  to  her  she  knew  for  the  first 
time  how  much  she  really  loved  Amaldi.  The  dreadful 
sinking  of  her  heart  when  she  faced  the  thought  that  he 
might  not  be  able  to  get  free  made  her  decide  at  once  to 
go  with  him  the  next  day.  And  she  would  not  take  Bobby 
with  her  this  time.  He  was  all  agog  over  a  lesson  in  row 
ing  that  Lorenzo,  the  first  gondoliere,  was  to  give  him 
to-morrow.  She  would  keep  him  with  her  until  she  and 
Amaldi  started  at  twelve  o'clock;  then  he  and  Rosa  could 
spend  the  afternoon  with  Lorenzo. 

She  sent  word  to  Amaldi  by  the  messenger  who  brought 
his  note  that  she  would  be  ready  to  go  with  him  next  day 
at  noon. 

He  did  not  tell  her  of  what  Barti  had  said,  and  she  did 
not  ask  him  until  they  were  alone  in  the  garden  of  Villa 
Rosalia. 

When  he  told  her  about  the  possible  alternative  of  Hun 
gary,  she  gave  a  cry  of  pain. 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  549 

"I  can't  bear  it  ...  I  can't  bear  it  that  you  should 
make  such  sacrifices!  ..."  she  stammered. 

"When  a  man  loves  as  I  love  you,  there  aren't  any  sac 
rifices,"  said  Amaldi. 

' '  Ah,  don 't  talk  that  way ! "  she  urged.  "  As  if  I  didn  't 
know  what  it  all  means  to  you  ..." 

' '  I  doubt  if  you  know  what  you  mean  to  me  ...  quite, ' ' 
he  answered. 

The  smothered  passion  and  sorrow  in  his  voice  shook  her 
to  the  heart.  She  tried  to  speak,  and  began  to  cry. 

' '  Forgive  me  .  .  .  forgive  me ! ' '  she  sobbed.  ' '  I  used  to 
be  so  proud  of  not  crying.  It's  the  tragedy  of  it  all.  .  .  . 
Our  love  is  such  a  tragedy !  .  .  . " 

Amaldi  looked  at  her  a  moment,  his  face  set.  Then 
with  a  quick,  almost  violent,  gesture  he  took  her  in  his 
arms.  "You  shall  not  say  that  our  love  is  a  tragedy  ..." 
he  muttered.  But  she  sobbed  on: 

"It  is  .  .  .  it  is!  .  .  .  Oh,  why  couldn't  we  have  known 
each  other  .  .  .  from  the  first!  ..." 

"But  you  love  me  .  .  .  now?" 

' '  Oh,  you  know  it  ...  you  know  it !  .  .  . " 

He  put  his  hand  up  suddenly  and  turned  her  face  to  his. 
It  gave  him  a  strange  thrill  to  feel  her  warm  tears  on  his 
hand.  He  looked  down  into  her  eyes,  and  there  was  some 
thing  imperious  and  fateful  in  this  look. 

"...  Really  love  me  ? "  he  said. 

Her  "Yes"  came  in  a  whisper. 

He  kept  his  eyes  on  hers  another  second,  then  bent  his 
mouth  almost  deliberately  to  hers. 

"...  Sei  mia  moglie  .  .  .  sei  la  mia  vera  moglie  .  .  ." 
(Thou  art  my  wife  .  .  .  thou  art  my  real  wife  .  .  .),  he 
kept  whispering  brokenly  after  that  deep  kiss.  She  clung 
to  him  in  silence.  Yes,  she  too  felt  that  she  belonged  to 
him  as  she  had  never  belonged  to  another;  yet,  to  her, 
this  was  the  supreme  tragedy.  With  her  heart  at  home  on 
his — with  all  herself  at  home  in  him — she  knew  at  last  the 
love  in  which  flesh  and  spirit  are  one  essence — in  which 
God  the  fire  and  God  the  fuel  are  one.  But  to  know  such 
love  only  after  having  passed  through  the  nether  fires  of 
other  loves — was  not  that  the  tragedy  of  tragedies?  She 
would  not  have  been  true  woman  had  she  not  felt  it  so,  and 
he  would  not  have  been  true  man  if,  even  in  that  hour,  the 
memory  of  those  other  loves  had  not  wrung  him.  But 


550  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

while  it  was  the  woman's  way  to  confess  this  sense  of 
tragedy,  it  was  the  man's  way  to  deny  it  stoutly.  So  he 
told  her  over  and  over  with  passionate  insistence  that  she 
had  never  known  real  love — that  the  great  fire  of  his  love 
would  consume  even  the  memory  of  her  mistakes — that  the 
past  was  nothing  to  him  and  should  be  nothing  to  her  in 
the  light  of  the  present. 

They  sat  there,  locked  in  each  other's  arms  for  a  long 
time.  The  sun  was  westering.  The  shadows  of  the  cy 
presses  lengthened  along  the  grass  until  they  seemed  to 
leap  softly  from  the  river  brink  into  the  water. 

"When  they  went  back  to  the  villa,  they  found  old  Car- 
letto  preparing  to  serve  tea  in  the  columned  portico.  The 
Signora  Marchesa  was  just  about  to  descend,  he  told  them. 
She  called  from  above  as  he  finished  speaking: 

"lie,  Carletto!  ...  Go  tell  the  Signora  Chesney  and 
the  Marchesino  that  tea  is  ready.  ..." 

"We  are  here,"  said  Amaldi,  going  towards  the  stair 
case.  "Wait  ...  let  me  help  you  ..." 

The  Marchesa  was  coming  down  very  slowly,  one  step  at 
a  time,  leaning  heavily  on  a  big,  ebony  cane.  The  rheuma 
tism  in  her  knee  was  much  better,  but  she  was  still  very 
stiff.  She  called  out  in  her  jolly,  plucky  voice  as  he  began 
mounting  towards  her: 

"But  just  look  how  cleverly  I  manage  by  myself!  ..." 

As  she  said  this,  she  planted  her  stick  on  the  marble 
floor  of  the  first  landing.  Amaldi  was  within  a  yard  of 
her — Sophy  watching  from  the  hall  below.  It  all  hap 
pened  in  a  second.  The  stick  slipped  .  .  .  the  Marchesa, 
who  had  leaned  her  whole  weight  upon  it  for  the  next 
downward  step,  was  thrown  head  first  against  the  opposite 
wall.  The  sound  of  her  bare  forehead  against  the  marble 
of  the  wall  was  horrible.  Then  Amaldi  had  her  in  his 
arms.  .  .  .  Sophy  and  Carletto  ran  wildly.  It  seemed  as 
if  she  must  be  dead.  They  could  not  realise  that  such  a 
crashing  blow  could  result  in  anything  but  death. 

In  a  few  moments  the  whole  villa  was  in  confusion. 
Amaldi  and  his  man  Piero  carried  the  Marchesa  to  her 
bedroom.  Sophy  directed  the  frightened  maids  what  to  do. 
Amaldi  sent  Piero  to  Cortola,  the  nearest  town,  for  a  doc 
tor.  All  the  time  that  Sophy  wras  working  with  Amaldi 
over  the  unconscious  form  of  his  mother,  a  stupid  voice 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  551 

kept  dinning  in  her  mind:  "It  never  rains  but  it  pours 
.  .  .  It  never  rains  but  it  pours.  ..." 

It  was  nearly  an  hour  before  the  Marchesa  regained  con 
sciousness.  Her  mind  became  clear  in  an  astonishingly 
short  time,  but  she  was  suffering  frightful  pain  in  her  head. 
Fortunately,  almost  at  the  moment  she  opened  her  eyes 
Piero  came  back  with  the  doctor  from  Cortola.  After  a 
careful  examination,  he  assured  them  that  there  was  no 
concussion  of  the  brain,  and  that  if  the  Signora  would  re 
main  quietly  in  bed  for  a  few  days,  all  would  be  well.  It 
was  nearly  ten,  however,  before  they  became  satisfied  that 
her  condition  was  not  dangerous. 

Sophy  insisted  that  Amaldi  should  send  Carletto  back 
with  her  to  Venice  and  himself  remain  with  his  mother. 
He  would  not  consent  to  this.  The  physician  was  to  spend 
the  night  at  the  villa.  The  Marchesa  was  sleeping  quietly 
now  under  a  strong  sedative.  Her  faithful  old  cameriera 
of  forty  years'  standing  was  at  the  bedside.  He  was 
not  willing  for  Sophy  to  take  the  journey  back  without 
him. 

At  half -past  ten  they  walked  once  more  through  the  old 
garden.  The  soft  night  was  wonderful  with  stars.  Car 
letto  went  ahead  carrying  a  candle.  His  knotty  fingers, 
through  which  the  flame  shone  in  gold  and  reddish  streaks, 
and  the  silver  outline  of  his  hair,  glided  forward  mysteri 
ously  against  the  purple  bloom  of  the  night.  On  the  river 
bank,  they  saw  the  glow  of  a  lantern  where  the  gondolier! 
were  getting  things  in  readiness.  Then  the  brazen  beak  of 
the  gondola  gleamed  suddenly. 

When  they  entered  it  and  the  gondolieri  began  to  row, 
it  seemed  to  Sophy  that  the  quiet  river,  veiled  in  darkness 
like  the  stream  of  fate,  was  gliding  with  them  to  some  ap 
pointed  end.  A  feeling  of  presage  welled  in  her.  She  shiv 
ered  and  drew  closer  to  Amaldi. 

The  night  was  hushed  and  grave.  The  banks  stole  by 
soft  with  grass  or  the  brooding  dimness  of  foliage.  The 
fields  were  quiet  as  sleep.  Against  the  violet  dark  rose 
sometimes  the  roofs  of  thatched  cottages  and  now  and  then 
a  lighted  window  shone  out — the  watchful,  steadfast  eye 
of  home. 

The  gates  of  the  first  lock  opened — the  gondola  floated 
in.  Slowly,  almost  imperceptibly,  they  began  to  sink  with 
the  ebbing  water.  Little  by  little,  the  trees,  the  houses,  the 


552  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

tranquil  fields  slipped  from  view.  Now  they  were  in  a 
dark  well,  as  in  a  tomb  together.  A  strip  of  starry  sky 
shone  above.  They  looked  up  at  it  without  speaking.  The 
dark  lock  was  like  their  present — the  strip  of  sky  with  its 
secret  writing  of  stars  was  like  the  far  hope  that  glim 
mered  for  them  above  the  gulf  of  years.  .  .  . 

The  gates  unclosed  again;  they  glided  out  once  more 
upon  the  Brenta,  and  more  than  ever  it  seemed  to  Sophy 
like  the  hidden  stream  of  fate,  bearing  them  to  an  ap 
pointed  end. 


LII       • 

."WHEN  they  turned  into  the  Rio  San  Vio,  it  was  nearly  one 
o'clock.  Glancing  up  at  the  windows  of  her  flat,  Sophy 
saw  that  the  little  drawing-room  was  lighted.  Some  one 
came  to  one  of  the  windows  and  looked  out  between  the 
slats  of  the  blinds  as  the  gondola  stopped  before  the  house 
— Rosa,  probably — poor  soul,  sick  with  anxiety! 

Amaldi  stepped  ashore  and  held  out  his  hand.  They 
went  together  into  the  small  court  and  began  to  mount  the 
stairs  leading  to  her  flat.  The  stairway  was  enclosed  and 
very  dark.  On  the  first  landing  was  a  window  through 
which  shone  a  faint  gleam  of  starlight.  He  stopped  and 
took  her  in  his  arms,  but  very  tenderly.  He  felt  her  weari 
ness  and  apprehension.  His  passion  curbed  itself  to  her 
need. 

"When  shall  I  see  you  again?"  he  whispered. 

She  whispered  back: 

"I  will  let  you  know  ...  I  will  write." 

Suddenly  she  started.  Amaldi,  too,  looked  up  at  the 
dark  stairway. 

"I  heard  a  door  open.  .  .  .  We  must  go  .  .  ."  she  mur 
mured. 

"Wait.  Let  me  go  first,"  he  said,  taking  out  a  box  of 
matches.  "These  will  be  better  than  nothing.  ..." 

He  mounted  slowly  before  her,  lighting  the  little  wax- 
matches  as  he  went.  It  seemed  to  her  that  the  stairway 
was  endless — she  was  so  tired!  She  dragged  herself  up, 
watching  his  face  and  figure  spring  out  in  the  orange  wax- 
light  against  the  darkness,  then  fade  again  as  the  light 
died  down.  Now  she  could  not  see  him.  Then  again  came 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  553 

the  spurt  of  bluish  flame  deepening  to  orange,  and  again 
she  would  see  his  slight,  strong  figure  and  the  clear-cut 
mask  of  his  face. 

As  they  turned  the  last  landing,  and  went  up  the  flight 
leading  direct  to  her  apartment,  they  saw  that  the  door 
was  open  and  Rosa  standing  with  a  candle  at  the  top  of 
the  stairs.  She  gave  a  cry  of  joy  as  she  caught  sight  of 
Sophy — and  came  rushing  down  to  meet  her.  Oh,  the 
Madonna  and  San  Guiseppe  be  praised!  Oh,  what  had 
happened?  She  and  Miladi  had  been  so  afraid — so  ter 
ribly  afraid!  .  .  . 

As  she  was  speaking,  a  tall  figure  appeared  in  the  open 
doorway.  Sophy's  heart  seemed  to  lose  a  beat.  Lady 
Wychcote  acknowledged  Amaldi's  greeting,  then  called  to 
Sophy : 

"Are  you  really  unhurt?  ...  I  fancied  all  sorts  of  hor 
rid  accidents  ..." 

Sophy  answered  in  the  natural  voice  that  astonishes 
one 's  self  at  such  moments : 

"Yes.  I'm  quite  all  right,  thanks.  But  there  has  been 
an  accident.  ..." 

"Ah  ...  I  felt  sure  of  it!"  said  Lady  Wychcote. 

All  three  entered  the  drawing-room.  Rosa  had  rushed 
off  again  to  tell  the  other  servants  of  the  Signora's  safe 
return.  Amaldi  felt  that  he  must  not  leave  too  abruptly. 
Lady  Wychcote 's  unexpected  presence  at  the  flat  struck 
him  as  not  only  unfortunate  but  very  singular,  even 
ominous.  Why  had  she  come,  then,  a  day  before  she  was 
expected  by  Sophy?  One  who  wished  to  surprise  another 
in  some  overt  act  would  follow  just  such  a  course.  And 
as  he  looked  at  the  cold,  composed  face  that  now  wore  an 
expression  of  polite  interest  he  felt  a  stir  of  fear.  What 
was  the  real  woman  cogitating  under  that  civil  mask? 
What  was  her  real  feeling  towards  Sophy  ?  Whether  grief 
had  sharpened  his  perceptions  to  an  unusual  acuteness,  or 
whether  to-night  some  unusual  force  went  out  from  Lady 
Wychcote,  it  would  be  difficult  to  say — but  a  conviction  as 
strong  as  the  conviction  of  his  own  existence  seized  him — 
the  conviction  that  this  woman  was  Sophy's  enemy — im 
placable,  ruthless,  willed  to  it  with  all  her  being.  And  as 
he  thought  of  what  a  clever,  unscrupulous  tongue  might 
make  of  Sophy's  being  with  him  at  such  an  hour  of  night, 
he  felt  cold  with  dread  and  anger.  It  seemed  too  horrible 


554  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

that  the  cruel  past  should  reach  out  to  her  even  from  the 
shadow  of  death.  First  the  brutal  son — then  his  mother. 
It  was  as  if  Cecil  Chesney  grasped  at  the  issues  of  her  life, 
even  from  the  grave,  through  the  cold  will  of  his  mother. 

In  the  meantime,  Sophy  was  describing  the  Marchesa's 
fall  to  Lady  Wychcote,  who  listened  with  that  expression 
of  civil  interest,  and  now  and  then  an  interjection  of  con 
ventional  regret.  v«p 

The  more  Amaldi  reflected,  the  more  sinister  the  whole 
situation  seemed  to  him.  But  he  was  quite  powerless.  He 
excused  himself  in  a  few  moments,  saying  that  he  must  get 
back  to  the  villa  as  soon  as  possible.  Lady  Wychcote  mur 
mured  some  expressions  of  formal  sympathy.  Sophy  gave 
him  a  cold,  rather  rigid,  hand.  Her  eyes  looked  blank,  like 
the  eyes  of  a  puppet. 

He  went  out  sick  at  heart  with  impotent  love  and  wrath. 

"VYhen  he  had  gone,  Lady  Wychcote  said  to  Sophy : 

"You  look  rather  ill.  Don't  you  think  you'd  better 
have  something  to  eat  .  .  .  some  wine,  perhaps?" 

"Thanks,  no.  I'll  just  go  to  bed.  Sleep  will  be  the  best 
thing  for  me." 

"But  you  don't  look  as  if  you  would  sleep  much," 
returned  Lady  Wychcote.  "You  seem  terribly  over 
strung.  ..." 

"Yes.  It  was  a  horrid  thing  to  see!"  Sophy  answered. 
In  her  mind  the  senseless,  chaunting  voice  had  begun  again : 
"It  never  rains  but  it  pours.  .  .  .  It  never  rains  but  it 
pours." 

Rosa  came  running  back.  She,  too,  pressed  her  mistress 
to  eat  and  drink. 

"No.    I  only  want  to  lie  down  ...  to  be  quiet,  Rosa." 

The  kind  soul,  full  of  affectionate  concern,  threw  an  arm 
about  her  in  order  to  sustain  her  better. 

"Good  night,"  Sophy  then  said.  "I'm  sorry  to  have  to 
leave  you  at  once,  like  this.  .  .  .  But  I'm  really  worn 
out.  .  .  ." 

"Just  one  thing  before  you  go,"  returned  Lady  Wych 
cote,  following  as  they  went  towards  the  door.  "I'd  like 
to  explain  my  unceremonious  descent  on  you.  .  .  .  James 
and  Mildred  decided  to  leave  Venice  this  afternoon  instead 
of  to-morrow.  So,  as  I  knew  you  were  expecting  me  to 
morrow,  I  thought  it  couldn't  really  make  any  difference 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  555 

to  you  if  I  came  a  day  sooner.  I  hope  it  hasn't  incon 
venienced  you  in  any  way  .  .  .  ? " 

11  Not  in  the  least.    How  could  it?"     . 

"  Thanks  very  much.  I  hope  you  will  feel  rested  in  the 
morning. ' ' 

" Thanks.    I'm  sure  I  shall." 

Sophy  moved  on  again.  She  felt  that  if  she  did  not  soon 
reach  her  bedroom  she  would  drop  to  the  floor  in  spite  of 
Rosa's  supporting  arm. 

But  now  Lady  AVychcote  was  speaking  again.  She  had 
followed  them  out  into  the  corridor. 

"Oh  ...  by  the  way  ...  I'm  sorry  to  detain  you,  but 
I  want  to  mention  something  about  Robert  ..." 

The  spent  life  in  Sophy  leaped  like  flame  in  the  draught 
of  a  suddenly  opened  door. 

"Yes?  "she  said. 

"The  poor  boy  was  so  upset  by  your  being  so  late  that  I 
promised  him  a  trip  to  the  glass-works  to  divert  him." 

"That  was  very  kind  of  you,"  murmured  Sophy. 

Lady  Wychcote  continued : 

"So,  if  you've  no  objection,  we  are  to  go  to  Murano 
rather  early  to-morrow  morning.  ...  A  sort  of  all-day 
affair.  We'll  lunch  there.  ..." 

"No,  of  course  I  don't  object.  I  think  it's  very  kind 
of  you, ' '  said  Sophy. 

"Then  .  .  .  good  night,"  said  Lady  Wychcote. 

Through  the  haze  of  fatigue  and  misery  that  clouded 
her,  Sophy  felt  something  peculiar  in  the  tone  of  this 
"Good  night."  But  then  her  ladyship's  voice  often  took  a 
peculiar  tone  in  speaking  to  her.  She  was  too  tired  to 
analyse  this  special  shade  of  expression. 

A  great  sigh  of  relief  escaped  her  as  she  found  herself  in 
her  own  room. 

"Chut!"  whispered  Rosa,  smiling  wisely,  her  finger  at 
her  lips.  Then  she  lowered  it  and  pointed  to  the  bed  under 
its  tent  of  white  mosquito  netting.  "Guarda!  .  .  .  povero 
angelotto!"  (Look!  .  .  .  poor  little  angel!),  she  mur 
mured.  "He  wouldn't  sleep  till  I  let  him  come  into  his 
dear  mamma's  bed.  ..." 

As  Sophy  saw  through  the  mist  of  the  white  curtains,  the 
little  sturdy  form  and  dark-red  curls  of  her  son,  all  her 
being  rose  in  a  great  wave  of  love  and  anguish.  And  borne 


556  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

forward  as  by  this  wave,  she  went  and  looked  down  on  him. 
He  lay  prone,  hugging  his  pillow  to  him  with  both  arms, 
as  if  in  her  absence  he  would  at  least  make  sure  of  some 
thing  that  had  been  close  to  her.  And  not  even  on  the  day 
when  he  had  been  born  to  her  with  anguish  had  she  felt 
such  a  throe  of  tenderness. 

She  turned  away  after  a  moment  and  let  Rosa  help  her 
to  undress;  then  as  soon  as  she  was  alone  blew  out  the 
shaded  candle  and  stole  again  towards  the  bed. 

A  clear  September  moon  had  risen.  It  shone  in  upon 
the  veiled  bed  and  made  it  gleam  mysteriously — made  it 
look  like  a  shrine.  The  curtains  had  a  holy  whiteness  in 
the  moonlight. 

Sophy  went  and  knelt  down  beside  it,  and  as  she  knelt 
there  Bobby  stirred,  lifted  himself  on  his  elbow. 

"Mother  .  .  .?"  he  said. 

"Yes,  darling.    I'm  here  .  .  .  just  saying  my  prayers." 

He  gave  a  little  smothered  whoop  of  joy,  and  scrambled 
to  the  edge  of  the  bed,  dragging  up  the  netting  that  di 
vided  them.  He  shook  the  loose  folds  down  behind  her, 
and  threw  both  arms  around  her  neck,  hugging  her  head 
tight  against  him.  The  warm,  lovely  perfume  of  a  sleepy 
child  enfolded  her.  It  was  like  the  very  essence  of  love 
enfolding  her. 

She  had  to  explain  everything  to  him  before  he  would 
let  her  go.  Then  he  began  pleading:  "Don't  send  me 
back  to  my  room  right  away,  mother.  ...  I  know  it  was 
rather  girly  of  me  to  come  and  get  in  your  bed  like  this. 
.  .  .  But  Rosa's  a  good  old  sort.  She  won't  peach  on  me. 
.  .  .  And  I  think  it's  rather  natural,  a  chap  being  a  bit 
girly  about  his  mother  when  he  thinks  things  might  have 
happened  to  her,  don't  you?" 

Sophy  said  that  indeed  she  did,  and  that  he  should  stay 
with  her  till  morning — that  it  made  her  feel  ever  so  much 
happier  and  safer  to  have  him  near  her.  Bobby  snuggled 
down  blissfully,  keeping  her  hand  in  both  his. 

"After  all,"  he  said,  "though  I'm  not  grown,  I'm  the 
only  man  you  've  got.  ...  It 's  nice  to  have  a  man  awfully 
anxious  about  you,  ain't  it,  mother?" 

"Ah,  yes,  indeed  it  is!"  she  murmured. 

He  was  silent  for  a  few  seconds ;  then  he  said : 

"I  am  the  only  man  you've  got  .  .  .  really,  ain't  I, 
mother?" 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  557 

Sophy's  heart  stabbed.  She  put  her  other  arm  about 
him. 

"Yes,  Bobby — yes,  darling,"  she  said,  holding  him  to 
her. 

"I  like  awfully  being  your  only  man,"  he  murmured. 
"I  ...  I  like  the  'sponsibility. " 

"Dear  heart!  ..."  she  murmured  back,  her  lips  on  his 
curls. 

He  gave  another  of  his  snuggling  wriggles  of  content, 
and  was  silent  again.  She  thought  he  was  dozing  off, 
when  he  said  suddenly  in  a  by-the-way  tone: 

"I  say,  mother — is  Marehese  Amaldi  married?" 

Sophy's  heart  stabbed  again.  Why  did  the  boy  ask 
this? 

"Yes,  dear.    Why?"  she  said. 

"Oh  .  .  .  nothing  in  partic'lar, "  replied  Bobby,  his 
voice  more  off-hand  than  ever.  "I  just  wondered.  .  .  ." 
Then  he  remarked,  still  in  that  casual  way: 

"You  haven't  told  me  yet  what  kept  you  so  late, 
mother." 

Sophy  told  him,  and  as  she  spoke  she  kept  thinking: 
"He  has  been  worrying  about  Amaldi.  He  has  been  think 
ing  of  me  and  him  together."  And  this  idea  was  full  of 
bitter  pain  to  her — the  idea  that  her  little  son  might  have 
been  troubling  over  the  possibility  of  her  marriage  with 
yet  another  man ! 

And,  in  fact,  this  thought  had  harassed  Bobby  for  the 
last  two  days.  It  had  embittered  even  the  joy  of  his  first 
lesson  in  rowing  a  gondola  that  afternoon.  When  Sophy 
had  not  returned  by  six  o'clock,  as  she  had  said  that  she 
would,  dreadful  surmises  had  taken  hold  of  him.  Perhaps 
she  was  so  late  because  she  had  decided  suddenly  to  be 
married  to  the  Marehese.  Perhaps  she  would  come  back 
with  him  and  say :  ' '  Bobby,  this  is  your  new  father. ' '  The 
mere  idea  had  filled  him  with  a  blackness  of  resentment 
and  jealousy.  Not  until  Sophy  had  replied  that  Amaldi 
was  already  married  had  this  feeling  subsided,  though  his 
joy  in  having  his  mother  again  with  him,  safe  and  sound, 
all  his  own  for  the  time  being,  had  made  him  put  it  aside 
for  the  first  few  moments.  But  boyhood  is  terribly  re 
served  in  some  things.  The  rack  could  scarcely  have 
brought  Bobby  to  confess  his  apprehensions  to  his  mother. 

Too  excited  to  sleep,  and  wishing  to  get  away  from  the 


558  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

subject  of  Amaldi,  he  began  to  tell  her  all  about  the  pro 
jected  trip  to  Murano. 

"Do  you  think  you'll  feel  well  enough  to  come,  too, 
mother?"  he  wound  up. 

"I'm  afraid  I'll  be  too  tired,  dear.    But  we'll  see.  ..." 

"Of  course,  I  wouldn't  have  you  come  if  you  felt  tired; 
but  it  won't  be  half  so  jolly  without  you." 

"We'll  see,  sweetheart,"  Sophy  repeated.  "I'll  surely 
come  wyith  you  if  I  'm  able  to.  .  .  . " 

He  rushed  off  into  an  eager  description  of  Venetian  glass- 
blowing. 

"And  they  make  every  sort  of  thing,  mother.  .  .  .  They 
even  make  stuff  for  dresses.  .  .  .  Oh,  mother  ...  I'd  love 
to  buy  you  a  spun-glass  gown !  'Twould  be  like  a  sort  of 
foggy  rainbow — don't  you  s'pose  so?  I  wonder  if  I  could 
get  glass  slippers  to  go  with  it?  ...  Wouldn't  you  like  a 
glass  gown,  mother?  You'd  look  just  like  a  princess  in  the 
Arabian  nights!  You  must  have  one!  ..." 

He  chattered  like  this  for  some  time.  Then  just  as  she 
thought  he  was  falling  asleep,  he  roused. 

"I  say,  mother  dear.  .  .  .  Don't  let  Harold  Grey  know 
I  got  in  your  bed  to  wait  for  you.  .  .  .  lie's  an  awfully 
set  chap  ...  he'd  think  me  so  beastly  soft.  You  see,  his 
mother's  always  had  his  father  to  look  after  her.  ...  So 
he  couldn't  understand  how  I  feel  about  you  .  .  .  being 
your  only  male  relative,  and  all  that.  ..." 

Sophy  promised,  kissing  the  red  curls  again  for  good 
night. 

He  was  quiet  for  about  five  minutes ;  then  once  more  he 
roused. 

"I've  just  had  such  a  stunning  idea,  mother,"  he  an 
nounced.  "I  want  us  to  write  a  book  together  .  .  .  when 
I  know  a  bit  more  rhetoric,  of  course.  But  we  might  both 
be  thinking  up  a  subject.  Wouldn't  it  be  jolly  to  have  our 
names  printed  together  like  that  on  the  first  page?  .  .  . 
'  What-you-may-call-it  ...  by  Sophy  Chesney  and  her  son 
Robert  Cecil  Chesney. 

"That's  a  beautiful  idea,  darling;  but  I'm  afraid  your 
name  would  have  to  be  signed  Wychcote.  ..." 

"No  ...  I  choose  to  have  it  Chesney  for  our  book.  I 
am  a  Chesney,  too,  ain't  I?" 

"Yes,  dear;  but  ..." 

"Just   for   our   book,    mother,"   he    pleaded.      "There 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  559 

they  'd  be — our  two  names — close  together — long  after  we  'd 
gone.  .  .  .  Isn't  life  a  rummy  thing,  when  you  come  to 
think  of  it,  mother?" 

"Yes,  dear.    But  try  to  go  to  sleep  now.  ..." 

"All  right-o.  .  .  ." 

He  snuggled  closer,  settling  himself  with  a  deep  breath 
of  determination.  But  suddenly  he  exclaimed : 

"Just  one  thing  more  .  .  .  What  do  you  think  of  'Spun 
Glass'  for  the  title  of  our  book,  mother?" 

"Well,  darling — that  would  depend  on  what  the  book  is 
to  be  about.  ..." 

"Oh  .  .  .  about  life  in  general!  ..."  said  Bobby 
largely.  Then  with  the  quick  drowsiness  of  healthy  child 
hood  he  fell  fast  asleep  before  she  could  answer. 

But  Sophy  lay  long  awake.  It  seemed  to  her  that  life 
clung  about  her  like  a  strong,  dark  web,  meshing  every 
natural  movement  of  her  heart.  The  idea  of  thrusting  an 
other  man  into  her  son's  life — another  "father" — became 
more  and  more  painful  to  her.  The  idea  of  giving  up 
Amaldi  was  unendurable.  The  idea  of  his  giving  up  his 
country  for  her  sake  revealed  itself  suddenly  as  a  sacrifice 
too  terrible  for  her  to  accept. 

The  more  she  struggled  for  some  egress  from  the  clog 
ging  meshes,  the  tighter  they  closed  about  her.  At  dawn 
she  was  still  wide  awake,  but  when  Bobby  and  his  grand 
mother  set  out  for  Murano  at  eight  o'clock  she  was  sleep 
ing  like  one  drugged. 


LIII 

SHE  did  not  wake  until  eleven,  and  by  the  time  that  she 
was  dressed  it  was  after  twelve.  Recalling  what  Lady 
Wychcote  had  said  about  lunching  with  Bobby  at  Murano, 
she  thought  for  a  moment  of  going  there  and  trying  to  find 
them  in  time  for  luncheon.  Then  she  recoiled  from  the 
idea  of  being  with  her  mother-in-law  for  several  hours. 
But  she  was  too  restless  to  read  or  go  out  in  the  gondola. 
Rosa  told  her  that  Lady  Wychcote  had  gone  to  Murano 
by  steamer. 

She  decided  finally  that  she  would  take  a  long  walk 
among  the  little  by-streets  of  Venice  and  have  luncheon  at 
some  small  ristorante,  all  alone.  She  went  out  into  the 


560  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

soft  brilliance  of  the  September  day,  and  the  very  radiance 
of  the  sunshine  had  a  curious  melancholy  for  her  mood. 
It  was  a  relief  to  her,  after  crossing  the  ugly  iron  bridge 
over  the  Grand  Canal,  to  find  herself  in  the  shadowed  by 
ways.  Now  and  then,  through  a  gate  in  some  wall,  a  plot 
of  flowers  laughed  out  at  her,  or  she  saw  the  nicker  of 
sunlit  green  high  above.  But  the  shadowed  water  ran 
darkly,  and  the  smell  of  the  cool,  dank  streets  was  like 
the  breath  of  sleeping  centuries.  She  came  to  the  portico 
of  an  old  church,  and  went  in.  The  fumes  of  incense 
brought  back  that  day  in  London,  so  many  years  ago,  when 
she  had  gone  to  see  Father  Raphael  of  the  Poor.  She  bent 
her  head,  standing  all  alone  in  the  dark,  quiet  church,  and 
her  heart  hung  leaden  in  her  breast.  Even  Father  Raphael 
could  not  have  helped  her  now,  she  thought  .  .  .  for  there 
seemed  to  her  no  clear  way  of  right  and  wrong  here.  All 
was  subtle,  inextricably  tangled — a  maze  of  approxima 
tions,  instincts,  conflicting  duties,  inclinations. 

She  roused,  glanced  listlessly  at  the  paintings  over  the 
High  Altar,  then  went  out  again.  She  stood  a  moment  in 
the  street  before  the  church,  considering  her  next  move. 
She  was  now  not  far  from  the  Piazza  San  Marco.  She 
recalled  a  little  place  in  the  next  Rio  where  she  could  get 
a  simple  meal,  and  had  taken  a  step  forward  when  a  burst 
of  laughter  made  her  look  round.  Her  heart  was  jumping 
fast — that  laughter  was  so  painfully  familiar — like  the 
whinny  of  a  young  mare  in  springtime.  Then  she  saw. 
Three  people — a  man  and  two  wromen — had  just  turned  the 
corner,  about  twenty  yards  away,  and  were  coming  to 
wards  her.  The  girl  who  walked  a  yard  or  so  in  advance 
had  burnished,  ruddy  hair.  She  swung  her  white  beret 
in  her  hand  as  she  walked,  and  her  blowing  white  serge 
gown  moulded  her  handsome  legs  and  vigorous  young  bust. 
The  man's  gait  was  rather  sullen,  the  elder  woman's 
frankly  protesting. 

"For  goodness'  sake,  have  some  consideration  for  me,  at 
least,  Belinda!"  she  called  fretfully.  But  in  reply  the 
girl  only  laughed  her  careless,  whinnying  laugh  again. 

Sophy  had  just  time  to  spring  back  behind  the  dark 
columns  of  the  porch  before  they  could  recognise  her.  She 
had  been  as  if  paralysed  just  at  first.  She  squeezed  in 
among  the  columns,  with  a  feeling  of  sick  faintness.  Now 
they  were  at  the  church  door  .  .  .  they  paused. 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  561 

"Now  here's  where  I  balk!"  rang  out  Belinda's  voice. 
"No  more  rotten  old  churches  in  mine  to-day,  thank  you. 
Come  along,  Morry. " 

"But,  Belinda — I  really  need  to  rest  a  moment!"  pro 
tested  Mrs.  Horton. 

"You  can  rest  all  the  time  you're  eating  your  lunch 
eon,"  replied  her  step-daughter.  "Come  along,  Morry!" 

Sophy  thanked  Heaven  that  she  was  not  called  upon  to 
hear  Morris's  voice.  He  was  evidently  sulky  about  some 
thing.  He  made  no  reply.  Mrs.  Horton  grumbled  a  little, 
calling  Belinda  "selfish."  Again  Belinda  laughed.  Then 
the  three  went  on  up  the  narrow,  twisting  Rio. 

Sophy,  trembling  all  through,  leaned  there  against  the 
columns,  with  eyes  closed.  Round  and  round  in  her  mind 
the  old  adage  went  humming:  "It  never  rains  but  it  pours 
.  .  .  It  never  rains  but  it  pours.  .  .  ." 

She  remembered  that  Loring  and  Belinda  had  been  mar 
ried  last  May.  She  felt  ashamed  and  sick  for  herself,  for 
them,  for  life,  for  human  nature,  for  the  whole  social 
scheme,  for  civilisation.  .  .  .  Everything  seemed  to  her  like 
a  sickness  in  that  moment.  This  life  that  the  world  crawled 
with  was  like  the  swarming  of  maggots  in  a  cheese.  .  .  . 
She  hated  herself — she  hated  the  existing  order  of  things. 
She  understood  the  darkest  throes  of  pessimists  and  cynics 
in  that  moment.  And  under  it  all  her  heart  burnt  fiercely 
with  the  supreme  pang  of  the  proud,  chaste  being,  who 
has  yielded  to  lesser  loves  before  the  one,  great,  real  love 
has  been  revealed. 

Sophy  went  back  into  the  church  and  stayed  there  a 
long  time.  She  felt  faint  and  ill.  She  was  grateful  for 
the  quiet  darkness  in  which  she  could  sit  still  without 
attracting  attention.  At  last  she  went  out  into  the  street 
again.  When  she  reached  the  Piazza,  she  took  a  gondola 
and  returned  to  the  Rio  San  Vio.  She  had  forgotten  that 
she  had  not  lunched.  She  looked  so  pale  and  strange  that 
Rosa  exclaimed  when  she  saw  her.  She  lay  down  on  a  sofa 
in  the  little  sitting-room  and  let  the  kind  soul  bring  her  a 
cup  of  hot  tea.  This  revived  her  a  little,  and  by  and  by  as 
she  lay  there  she  fell  asleep.  It  was  nearly  six  o'clock 
when  she  waked.  Her  eyes  and  the  back  of  her  head  ached 
dully ;  but  she  felt  that  she  must  refresh  herself  and  change 
her  morning  gown  before  Lady  Wychcote  came  back  with 


562  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

Bobby.  She  bathed  her  face  and  eyes,  put  on  a  tea-gown, 
and  returned  to  the  drawing-room  to  wait  for  them. 
Taking  up  a  book,  she  tried  to  read,  but  found  that  she 
could  not  command  her  attention.  It  occurred  to  her  that 
she  ought  to  write  to  Amaldi,  but  this  also  she  found  im 
possible.  She  could  not  write  to  him  on  the  same  day  that 
she  had  seen  Loring  for  the  first  time  since  her  divorce. 
Then  suddenly  memories  of  Cecil  began  to  haunt  her.  In 
cidents  of  their  early  love-days  together  came  back  to  her 
with  words  and  looks  distinct  as  reality  itself. 

She  went  and  leaned  on  the  little  balcony.  The  sun  had 
just  gone  down.  Air  and  water  were  suffused  with  the 
afterglow.  High  overhead,  the  Venice  swifts  flew  shrilling 
as  with  ecstasy.  Their  musical  arabesques  of  flight  pat 
terned  the  upper  blue  like  joy  made  visible.  Some  dementia 
of  supernal  bliss  seemed  to  impel  them.  The  fine,  exultant, 
piercing  notes  were  like  showers  of  tiny,  crystal  arrows 
shot  earthward  from  the  heights  of  heaven. 

Sophy  stood  gazing  up  at  them,  and  the  mystery  of 
their  joy,  and  of  her  pain,  filled  her  with  a  new  aching. 

She  leaned  there  until  the  afterglow  had  died  away; 
but  it  was  not  until  seven  o'clock  that  she  began  to  feel 
anxious.  By  the  time  that  it  was  nearly  eight  and  Lady 
"VVychcote  and  Bobby  had  not  come,  she  was  greatly 
alarmed,  and  this  alarm  swept  away  all  lesser  considera 
tions.  She  sent  a  wire  to  Amaldi,  saying:  "Bobby  and 
his  grandmother  went  to  Murano  this  morning.  Expected 
to  return  at  six.  Not  here  yet.  Fear  some  accident.  Will 
you  come  and  advise  me."  Then  she  had  a  consultation 
with  Lorenzo,  the  first  gondoliere,  a  quiet,  capable  man  of 
about  forty.  She  thought  of  going  herself  to  Murano  to 
make  inquiries,  but  it  would  take  a  long  time  by  gondola. 
Could  Lorenzo  think  of  any  way  of  getting  there  more 
quickly.  Lorenzo  said  that  his  cousin  Ippolito  had  a  steam- 
launch  in  which  he  took  out  pleasure-parties.  He  might 
try  to  get  that ;  but  then  he  must  remind  the  Signora  that 
the  glass-works  at  Murano  would  be  closed  at  this  hour. 
It  would  be  very  difficult  to  make  inquiries.  Why  did  not 
the  Signora  go  to  the  Questura  for  aid  ?  The  police  might 
be  able  to  think  of  some  way  in  which  to  get  at  the  people 
of  the  glass-works. 

An  idea  came  to  her  suddenly.  She  wondered  at  her 
self  for  not  thinking  of  it  before.  She  would  go  to  the 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  563 

hotel  at  which  Lady  Wychcote  had  been  stopping.  It  was 
quite  possible  that  they  might  know  something  at  the  of 
fice.  She  might  even  tind  Lady  Wychcote  herself.  Yes — 
she  was  quite  capable  of  doing  an  inconsiderate  thing  like 
this  for  her  own  convenience.  She  might  have  stopped 
there  for  tea  on  the  way  back,  and,  feeling  tired,  might 
have  lingered  to  rest  a  while,  not  troubling  to  send  Sophy 
word.  Yes,  yes.  It  might  very  well  be  like  that.  Sophy 
had  ordered  dinner  for  half -past  eight  that  evening  out  of 
consideration  for  her  mother-in-law's  habits.  It  was  now 
only  ten  minutes  past  eight.  Lady  Wychcote  might  con 
sider  it  quite  sufficient  if  she  arrived  in  time  for  dinner. 


LIV 

SOPHY  ordered  the  gondola,  took  Rosa  with  her,  and  went 
to  the  Grand  Hotel. 

The  head  official  at  the  bureau  looked  rather  surprised 
by  her  questions.  Lady  Wychcote  ?  No,  her  ladyship  was 
not  there.  She  had  been  there  that  morning,  however.  She 
had  sent  a  message  late  the  night  before — after  twelve 
o'clock,  in  fact — to  tell  them  to  keep  her  luggage  at  the 
hotel  until  further  instructions,  instead  of  sending  it  to 
35  Rio  San  Vio  next  day,  as  she  had  at  first  ordered. 

"To  keep  her  luggage?"  Sophy  interrupted  blankly. 

"Si,  Signora.  But  I  was  about  to  explain,"  answered 
the  clerk.  "This  morning,  about  nine,  Lady  Wychcote 
came  again  with  her  railway  tickets  so  that  we  might  check 
her  luggage  straight  through  to  Paris.  ..." 

Sophy  turned  white. 

' '  You  must  be  mistaken !  .  .  . "  she  said. 

"Ma,  no,  Signora — scusi  ...  I  am  not  mistaken,"  said 
the  clerk  decidedly.  "The  tickets  were  through  from 
Venice  to  Paris.  Her  ladyship  wished  her  luggage  sent  by 
the  ten-thirty  train  this  morning.  I  think  that  she  herself 
left  by  that  train  also.  Shall  I  send  for  the  head  porter? 
He  will  know." 

"Yes,  please,"  Sophy  managed  to  murmur.  She  sank 
down  into  the  nearest  chair. 

The  head  porter  came  shortly.  He  had  just  returned 
from  the  station.  Yes.  Lady  Wychcote  had  left  that 
morning  on  the  through  train  for  Paris. 


564 

Sophy  could  not  articulate  for  a  moment.  Then  she  said, 
her  lips  stiff  and  dry: 

"Was  she  .  .  .  was  she  .  .  .  alone?" 

The  porter  replied  that  Miladi  had  been  alone  when  he 
last  saw  her,  as  she  had  insisted  on  being  taken  to  the 
station  an  hour  before  the  train  left.  But  that  the  tickets 
were  for  herself  and  her  maid.  So  that  he  supposed  that 
the  maid  had  joined  her  later.  There  happened  to  be  no 
other  guests  leaving  on  the  through  train  for  Paris  that 
morning,  and  as  Miladi  had  insisted  that  he  should  not 
wait,  he  had  returned  to  the  hotel.  Miladi  was  very  pos 
itive. 

"You  are  sure  there  was  not  a  ...  a  little  boy  with 
her  ? ' '  Sophy  asked. 

Yes — the  porter  was  quite  sure  that  there  had  been  no 
little  boy  with  Miladi. 

Sophy's  mind  was  working  in  terrible,  clear  flashes. 

She  turned  to  Rosa,  who  stood  a  little  apart,  rather 
scared,  feeling  that  something  puzzling  and  dreadful  was 
in  the  air,  but  only  understanding  now  and  then  a  word  of 
the  English  in  which  all  were  speaking. 

"You  said  that  Lady  Wychcote  took  her  maid  with  her 
this  morning,  didn't  you?"  Sophy  asked. 

Rosa  replied  that  Anna  had  certainly  started  for  Murano 
with  Lady  Wychcote  and  Bobby. 

It  seemed  to  Sophy  that  she  saw  it  all  now.  Her  mother- 
in-law,  afraid  of  being  traced  too  easily  if  she  kept  the 
boy  with  her,  had  left  him  somewhere  with  Anna  until  a 
few  minutes  before  the  train  started.  Anna  was  a  clever, 
middle-aged  Yorkshire  woman  who  had  been  with  her 
ladyship  some  twenty  years.  She  could  be  trusted  to  hold 
her  tongue  and  act  intelligently  in  such  a  case.  She  was, 
oddly  enough,  devoted  to  her  mistress,  and  would  never 
have  thought  of  questioning  her  commands,  no  matter  how 
singular  they  might  have  appeared  to  her. 

And  yet — could  Lady  Wychcote  really  have  dared  to 
kidnap  the  boy — for  it  was  nothing  less  than  kidnapping 
if  she  had  taken  him  away  with  her  in  that  determined, 
secret  fashion.  But  why?  What  excuse  could  she  give? 
And  had  she  really  done  it?  And,  if  not,  where  was  Bobby? 
Where  was  her  little  son  at  this  late  hour  of  the  evening? 
She  felt  quite  crazy  and  witless  for  a  few  moments.  What 
to  do  ?  How  to  act  ?  And  time  was  going.  If  Bobby  had 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  565 

really  been  stolen  from  her,  then  she  must  follow  on  the 
next  train,  if  possible.  But  where?  Where  would  that 
relentless  old  woman  take  him?  If  she  (Sophy)  went  to 
Paris — she  would  have  no  further  clue  on  reaching  it. 
Lady  Wychcote  might  go  on  to  England;  she  might  not. 
And  why?  Why? 

Suddenly  she  knew.  In  a  searing  flash  she  knew  just 
why  it  was  that  Lady  Wychcote  had  taken  the  boy — and 
that  she  had  surely  taken  him.  She  remembered  that 
strange  tone  in  her  voice  last  night,  when  she  had  spoken 
with  her  after  Amaldi  had  left.  Yes — that  was  it!  She 
had  thought  the  worst  of  her  late  return  in  company  with 
Amaldi.  She  would  give  that  as  her  reason  for  taking 
away  the  boy — his  mother's  unfitness  to  be  his  guardian. 

Something  wild  and  potent  sprang  to  life  in  her.  She 
got  to  her  feet.  She  looked  like  another  woman.  Now  she 
was  asking  when  the  next  through  train  left  for  Paris. 
At  ten  o  'clock,  they  told  her.  It  was  now  twenty-five  min 
utes  past  nine.  She  might  make  it  if  she  went  straight  to 
the  station  in  the  gown  she  wore,  without  stopping  to  get 
even  a  small  travelling-bag.  But  no — she  was  not  sure 
enough  that  that  was  the  best  thing  to  do.  The  through 
tickets  that  Lady  Wychcote  had  bought  to  Paris  might  be 
only  a  blind.  She  must  be  very  certain  when  she  acted  to 
act  in  the  surest  way.  A  favourite  saying  of  Judge  Macon  's 
came  into  her  mind.  "Be  sure  you're  right — then  go 
ahead."  Besides,  Amaldi  might  be  at  the  Rio  San  Vio  by 
now.  He  would  be  sure  to  advise  her  in  the  sanest,  most 
clear-sighted  way.  He  was  the  very  man  to  stand  firm  in  a 
crisis,  not  to  lose  his  head.  Then,  with  a  hot  recoil  of 
shame,  she  thought  of  what  she  must  tell  him.  She  had 
not  yet  taken  in  what  all  this  might  also  mean  to  her  and 
Amaldi.  She  could  think  only  of  Bobby,  bewildered,  un 
happy,  rushing  away  from  her  on  the  night  express  to 
Paris  in  company  with  the  bitter  old  woman  who  had  al 
ways  hated  her.  She  recalled  the  feeling  of  his  strong  little 
body  as  he  had  snuggled  close  to  her  last  night.  A  fury 
of  impotent  love  and  rage  shook  her.  The  gondola  seemed 
to  crawl  over  the  light-jewelled  water  of  the  canal,  though 
Lorenzo  and  Mario  were  sending  it  along  at  racing  speed. 
A  gaily  lighted  barge  filled  with  singers  and  musicians 
passed  them. 

As  they  turned  into  the  little  Rio,  by  the  Palace  of  Don 


566  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

Carlos,  another  barge  began  burning  Bengal  lights.  The 
dark,  narrow  water-way,  with  its  crowding  houses  and  little 
bridges,  flared  red  before  her  as  in  some  operatic  scene. 
Why  were  things  always  so  brutally  ironical  ?  Why  should 
there  be  a  festival  in  Venice  on  the  night  that  her  boy  had 
been  stolen  from  her? 

When  she  reached  her  flat  she  found  a  wire  from  Amaldi, 
saying  that  he  would  take  the  train  from  Cortola  to  Venice, 
and  be  with  her  by  ten  o'clock.  It  was  the  quickest  way 
that  he  could  reach  her.  As  she  put  down  the  telegram 
she  heard  his  voice  on  the  stair,  speaking  to  Lorenzo.  Then 
he  came  in  alone.  He  took  her  in  his  arms,  held  her  close 
a  moment,  then  led  her  to  a  sofa,  and  sat  dowrn  beside  her, 
keeping  her  hands  in  his. 

"Now  tell  me,"  he  said. 

She  told  him  everything.  As  she  spoke  he  kept  mutter 
ing,  "What  infamy!  .  .  .  What  infamy!  ..."  He  was 
as  convinced  as  she  was  of  the  truth  of  her  conjectures. 

Her  dark,  tortured  eyes  made  him  wince  with  a  double 
pain.  It  was  only  her  son  that  she  was  thinking  of  in  those 
moments,  not  of  him,  her  lover — not  of  what  this  parting 
would  mean  to  him  and  her.  "What  must  I  do?"  she  kept 
asking  him.  "What  must  I  do  next?  Ought  I  to  have 
tried  to  catch  that  ten  o'clock  train?  Tell  me,  Marco  .  .  . 
for  God's  sake,  tell  me  what  I'd  best  do.  ..." 

"Wait,  dearest  ..."  he  said.  "Give  me  time  to 
think.  ..." 

He  sat  frowning  down  at  the  floor  for  a  few  moments. 
Then  he  turned  to  her.  He  asked  her  about  the  Wychcotes' 
solicitor. 

"Do  you  think  this  Mr.  Surtees  is  really  your  friend?" 
he  said  when  she  had  told  him  all  about  her  relations  with 
the  old  lawyer. 

"Yes.    I'm  sure  he  is,"  she  said  positively.    "Why?" 

' '  Because,  in  that  case,  it  seems  to  me  that  the  best  thing 
would  be  for  you  to  wire  him  to  meet  you  at  Folkestone. 
You  can  then  give  him  the  true  facts  and  ask  his  help — 
before  trying  to  see  Lady  Wychcote. ' ' 

"You  think  she's  taken  Bobby  to  England,  Marco? — 
You  feel  sure  of  that?" 

"I  don't  think  there's  a  doubt  of  it.  She  will  go  straight 
to  Surtees  with  her  story;  of  that  I  feel  positive." 

Sophy  coloured  painfully. 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  567 

"You  mean  that  .  .  .  that  she  would  want  him  to  speak 
to  ...  the  trustees?"  she  asked  in  a  low  voice. 

"Yes,  I'm  afraid  so,"  he  assented.  What  he  really 
thought  was  that  Lady  Wychcote  would  want  to  have  the 
matter  taken  at  once  before  the  Court.  But  he  could  not 
bring  himself  to  tell  her  this.  Her  shamed  flush  had  hurt 
him  horribly.  It  was  intolerable  that  this  revengeful  old 
woman  should  have  the  power  to  sully  and  cloud  their  rela 
tions.  Then  fear  seized  him.  "What  if  Sophy  were  mis 
taken  about  the  solicitor?  What  if  he  were  a  tool  of  Lady 
Wychcote?  The  possibilities  that  this  idea  disclosed 
appalled  him.  He  went  as  white  as  Sophy  had  gone 
red. 

"What  is  it?  What  are  you  thinking  of  now,  Marco?" 
she  urged  anxiously,  scared  by  his  expression. 

"I  was  thinking  how  you  could  get  to  England  in  the 
shortest  time,"  he  answered.  "It's  very  vital  that  you 
should  get  there  as  soon  as  possible." 

"Yes,  yes.  By  that  first  through  train  to  Paris  to-mor 
row  morning." 

"No.  You  needn't  go  to  Paris,"  said  Amaldi.  "It  will 
be  more  direct  for  you  to  go  from  Venice  straight  to  Bou 
logne  via  Laon.  You'll  save  several  hours  by  taking  that 
route. ' ' 

' '  Oh — thank  God ! ' '  she  stammered.  Then  she  caught 
up  his  hand  to  her  heart.  "How  good  you  are  to  me! 
Don 't  think  I  don 't  realise  it — your  unselfishness.  .  .  .  You 
think  only  of  me — and  I  can't  think  of  anything  but  my 
boy  ...  of  how  frightened  and  wretched  he  must  be.  ... 
It's  not  that  my  love  for  you  is  any  less  than  my  love  for 
him  .  .  .  but  he's  so  little  ...  he's  my  only  son  ...  he 
needs  me  so.  .  .  ." 

Amaldi  felt  like  crying  out,  "And  do  I  not  need  you?" 
but  he  choked  down  this  cry.  What  meaning  had  the  love 
of  lovers  for  Rachel  mourning  her  children  ?  He  drew  her 
to  him  and  kissed  her  loosened  hair  very  gently. 

"This  is  Bobby's  hour,"  he  said.  "I  can  wait  for  my 
hour." 

He  left  not  long  after,  so  that  the  servants  might  have 
no  cause  to  gossip.  It  had  been  decided  between  them  that 
he  would  attend  to  everything  for  her  and  that  she  and 
Rosa  would  be  ready  to  leave  by  the  morning  train. 

"I  will  send  men  to  fetch  your  boxes  at  nine,"  he  said. 


568  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

"Your  maid  can  go  with  them.  I  will  take  you  to  the  sta 
tion  myself." 

"Thank  you  .  .  .  thank  you,  dearest  ..."  she  said. 

Suddenly  he  caught  her  in  his  arms  as  on  the  day  before 
in  the  Villa  garden. 

"Don't  forget  that  you  are  the  blood  of  my  soul  ..." 
he  said  in  a  strangled  voice. 

She  sobbed  out  his  name — put  up  her  arms  about  his 
neck.  lie  kissed  her  rather  wildly  and  went  without  an 
other  word. 

That  strange  phrase  of  his  rang  in  her  mind  all  night, 
mingled  with  her  frantic,  confused  thoughts  of  Bobby — 
and  anguish  of  dread  about  what  Lady  Wychcote  might 
say  and  do  before  Mr.  Surtees  could  hear  the  true  facts. 

Amaldi  had  spoken  in  Italian  as  he  nearly  always  did 
in  moments  of  great  feeling.  She  could  hear  his  choked 
voice  saying  those  strange,  intense  words  .  .  .  "sei  il 
sangue  del  anima  mia" — the  blood  of  his  soul  .  .  .  she 
was  that  to  him.  And  yet,  as  she  lay  on  the  bed  that  Bobby 
had  shared  with  her  only  last  night,  she  felt  as  if  her  son 
were  the  true  blood  of  her  own  soul  .  .  .  that  if  she  lost 
him  by  any  dreadful,  unspeakable  chance — her  soul  would 
bleed  away  .  .  .  there  would  be  no  love  left  in  her  for  any 
one.  .  .  .  And  she  began  to  reproach  herself  bitterly 
through  the  endless,  sleepless  night.  She  had  been  wrapped 
up  in  her  own  life  .  .  .  she  had  not  thought  as  she  should 
of  the  precious  little  life  derived  from  hers.  .  .  .  She 
should  have  foreseen.  Knowing  Lady  Wychcote  as  she 
knew  her,  she  ought  to  have  had  such  a  possibility  as  this 
that  had  happened  always  before  her. 

Then  again  she  would  think  of  Amaldi  with  a  throb  of 
pain  and  yearning.  How  pale  he  had  looked  .  .  .  how 
worn.  She  could  not  sleep.  Her  head  and  heart  both  were 
burning.  Now  Loring's  face  came  before  her.  It  blended 
with  Amaldi 's,  blurring  it,  blotting  it  out.  Now  it  was 
Cecil  who  looked  straight  at  her  with  hard,  angry  eyes. 
"Where  is  my  son,  eh?  ...  What  have  you  done  with 
my  son  ? "  he  seemed  to  say. 

She  rose  from  the  bed  finally,  lighted  a  candle  and  began 
to  pack  her  travelling  bags.  As  soon  as  daylight  came,  she 
asked  Rosa  to  make  her  some  coffee.  Then,  in  spite  of  the 
woman 's  protests,  helped  her  with  the  other  packing.  Once 
when  they  were  folding  Bobby's  little  garments,  she  put 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  569 

down  her  head  on  Rosa's  shoulder  and  began  to  sob.  Then 
she  controlled  herself  again.  She  would  need  all  her 
strength  for  the  hours  and  days  that  lay  before  her. 


LV 

LATER  in  the  morning,  when  she  was  on  her  way  to  the  sta 
tion  alone  with  Amaldi,  it  was  even  worse,  but  she  had  no 
temptation  to  cry  now.  This  new  pain  that  had  sprung 
suddenly  to  life  in  her  had  the  searing  quality  of  hot  iron. 
She  kept  stealing  glances  at  his  face,  as  he  sat  beside  her 
in  the  gondola  looking  straight  ahead,  his  under-lids  drawn 
slightly  up.  It  gave  him  a  queer,  short-sighted  yet  un 
canny  look,  as  though  he  were  trying  to  focus  some  ap 
parition  of  the  future.  He  was  thinking : 

"If  she  has  to  choose  between  me  and  her  son — she  will 
choose  her  son." 

Sophy  was  thinking: 

"How  long  will  it  be  before  I  see  him  again?  .  .  .  What 
if  I  never  see  him  again  ? ' '  She  felt  as  if  some  inner  force 
were  tearing  her  in  two.  She  had  just  begun  to  realise  that 
in  finding  Bobby  again  she  might  lose  Amaldi. 

She  put  her  hand  on  his. 

' '  Marco  ..."  she  whispered.  Her  voice  was  full  of  fear 
and  pain. 

His  hand  turned  under  hers,  clasped  it  tight.  He  looked 
at  her  but  said  nothing. 

"I'm  afraid  ..."  she  whispered  again.  "Not  only 
about  Bobby  .  .  .  about  us.  .  .  ." 

"I  know,"  he  said  this  time. 

He  tried  to  think  of  some  words  of  comfort,  but  they 
would  not  come.  He  was  obsessed  by  the  suffocating  pain 
of  his  desire  to  help  and  guard  her  in  this  dreadful  crisis, 
and  the  knowledge  that  the  only  thing  he  could  do  for  her 
was  to  keep  away,  to  let  her  take  that  long,  anxious  journey 
alone.  At  the  time  when  she  needed  him  most  he  could  do 
nothing.  His  love  was  powerless.  It  was  because  of  his 
love  that  this  dark  thing  had  come  upon  her.  He  said  at 
last,  rather  mechanically : 

"When  you  see  the  solicitor,  things  will  clear,  I  feel  cer 
tain.  .  .  .  You'll  write  me  as  soon  as  you've  seen  him?" 


570  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

"Yes  .  .  .  yes,"  she  answered  eagerly.  "And  you  .  .  . 
you'll  write  to  me  ...  every  day,  won't  you?  .  .  .  That 
will  be  my  only  comfort  .  .  .  my  only  ..." 

She  choked  and  could  not  go  on. 

He  asked  her  where  he  should  address  his  letters,  and  she 
answered  "to  Breene. " 

"They  will  be  forwarded  to  me  wherever  I  am  .  .  .  you 
see  ...  I  don't  know  yet  where  I  shall  be  ...  just  at 
first.  ..." 

Again  she  broke  off. 

They  had  reached  the  station.  It  was  now  a  quarter  to 
ten.  Only  fifteen  minutes  more  and  they  would  be  parted 
— for  how  long? 

But  even  for  these  fifteen  minutes  they  could  not  be  to 
gether.  Amaldi  had  still  to  see  to  things — to  find  out 
whether  her  luggage  was  all  on  board.  She  watched 
him  as  he  went  to  and  fro  with  his  light,  nervous  step.  It 
was  all  so  unreal.  Even  he  looked  unreal.  She  could  not 
see  his  face  plainly  at  this  distance.  She  tried  to  recall  it, 
and  it  frightened  her  when  she  found  that  she  could  not 
imagine  it  clearly  though  she  had  looked  at  it  so  often  and 
so  earnestly  during  the  past  hour.  Would  she  be  unable  to 
see  his  face  in  her  thought  when  they  were  really  parted? 
Then  she  began  to  watch  the  station  clock.  Only  ten  min 
utes  more  now — only  nine  .  .  .  eight 

He  came  back  with  a  fachin-o,  who  gathered  up  her  bags, 
and  went  off  towards  the  train  with  them.  Seven  minutes 
now.  .  .  . 

She  sprang  to  her  feet. 

' '  Let  us  walk  together  ..."  she  said,  ' '  somewhere  away 
from  all  these  people.  ..." 

They  went  slowly  down  the  long  station,  beside  the  rails 
over  which  her  train  would  soon  be  rolling.  Their  white, 
drawn  faces  would  have  attracted  more  attention  were  not 
such  faces  often  seen  at  railway  stations.  One  or  two  peo 
ple  gave  them  a  passing  glance  of  curiosity.  About  them 
sounded  voices  and  footsteps,  trundling  wheels,  sharp  whis 
tlings,  the  clang  of  testing  hammers,  the  stridor  of  escap 
ing  steam,  all  made  harsher  and  more  echoing  by  the 
vaulted  roof  and  stone  walls  of  the  station. 

He  offered  her  his  arm,  and  she  clung  to  it  faint  with 
pain.  The  clattering,  grinding,  sibilant  din  added  to  her 
misery.  The  acrid  smell  of  coal-smoke  recalled  hateful 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  571 

memories.  She  had  so  many  things  she  wished  to  say. 
They  jostled  in  her  mind.  She  could  not  choose  which  one 
to  say  first.  And  with  him  it  was  much  the  same.  Then 
he  murmured  something  that  she  could  not  catch.  She 
clutched  his  arm,  saying,  "What  is  it?  .  .  .  Tell  me  again. 
.  .  .  I  didn't  hear." 

The  scream  of  an  engine  drowned  her  voice.  They  heard 
the  guard's  whistle.  People  were  scrambling  into  the  car 
riages.  A  fat  man  in  plaid  trousers  was  running  ridicu 
lously,  his  bag  banging  against  his  legs.  People  laughed. 
Amaldi  was  helping  her  into  a  carriage.  The  guard 
slammed  the  door.  She  stood  at  the  window  and  reached 
out  her  hand  to  him.  He  grasped  it,  -looking  up  at  her  in 
silence.  Then  the  train  began  to  move.  He  walked  beside 
it  for  a  little  way.  The  rhythm  of  the  wheels  quickened. 
The  trucks  began  their  clangorous,  jerky  sing-song.  The 
closely  clasped  hands  were  drawn  apart.  She  felt  the  rush 
ing  air  chill  on  her  hand  that  was  still  warm  from  his.  She 
sank  back,  pulling  down  the  brown  travelling  veil  that  she 
had  thrown  back  for  her  last  look  at  him.  With  closed  eyes 
she  tried  to  recall  his  face,  and,  as  before,  in  the  station,  it 
refused  to  come  clearly  to  her.  Mile  after  mile  she  sat 
there  without  stirring,  and  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  must 
have  cried  out  with  the  sharp  misery  of  it  all,  but  for  the 
motion  of  the  train  which  seemed  in  some  inexplicable  way 
to  dull  the  edge  of  her  suffering.  When  the  train  stopped 
at  some  station  she  could  scarcely  endure  the  sudden  still 
ness.  Then  when  it  rushed  on  again,  again  in  that  odd 
way,  her  pain  became  once  more  soothed. 

But  after  half  an  hour  or  so  this  haze  of  stupefaction 
lifted,  leaving  her  face  to  face  with  clear  agony  once  more. 
It  was  the  thought  of  her  son  that  racked  her  now  .  .  .  her 
little  son,  flesh  of  her  flesh,  heart  of  her  heart.  What  must 
he,  too,  be  enduring? — he  who  had  once  begged  her  never 
to  leave  him  again,  "for  Jesus'  sake,  Amen."  She  could 
see  his  little,  pale  face  upturned  to  the  car  windows  at 
Sweet- Waters  station  and  hear  the  tremble  in  his  voice. 
She  felt  as  though  a  knife  were  being  turned  round  and 
round  in  her  breast.  Then  black  fear  seized  her  again  .  .  . 
fear  of  what  it  might  be  in  Lady  Wychcote's  power  to  do 
against  her — what  she  might  have  done  already.  Would 
Mr.  Surtees  really  be  her  friend?  Would  he  believe  her? 
Would  all  those  strange  men  believe  her  story?  Would 


572  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

she  have  to  tell  it  to  them  face  to  face? — Perhaps  go  into 
Court  ? 

She  clenched  her  hands  in  her  helpless  anguish  until 
they  ached  and  burnt.  .  .  .  O  God!  .  .  .  God!  Suppose 
that  some  ill  had  come  to  him.  Suppose  she  were  never  to 
hear  that  eager,  strong  little  voice  again.  .  .  .  She  stood 
up  suddenly  to  her  full  height.  People  in  the  carriage 
stared  at  her.  She  dropped  back  again  wondering  if  she 
had  cried  out.  .  .  . 

About  sunset  the  train  began  to  mount  the  Gothard. 
Now  she  was  in  the  grip  of  a  new  horror — the  memory  of 
the  last  time  that  she  had  taken  this  journey.  She  could 
see,  as  if  it  had  been  yesterday,  Gerald  Wychcote's  thin, 
frail  figure  looking  so  much  frailer  than  usual  in  its  unac 
customed  black — that  awful,  oblong  black  box  guarded  by 
Gaynor  in  the  luggage  van — the  box  in  which  Cecil  trav 
elled  like  goods  on  a  goods  train.  .  .  .  Now  it  was  for 
Cecil's  son  that  she  was  taking  the  dreadful  journey.  .  .  . 
Again  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  saw  his  angry,  hard  blue 
eyes  staring  at  her  and  heard  him  saying,  "Where  is  my 
son,  eh  ?  What  have  you  done  with  my  son  between  you — 
you  and  your  latest  lover  ? ' ' 

She  grasped  her  head  in  both  hands,  wondering  if  the 
wild  pain  in  it  meant  brain  fever.  .  .  . 

It  was  drizzling  next  morning  when  they  reached  Bou 
logne,  but  the  sea  was  calm.  She  looked  hungrily  at  the 
grey  curtain  of  mist  that  shut  out  England. 

The  crossing  was  short.  And  yet  it  seemed  to  her  an 
eternity  before  the  steamer  docked  at  Folkestone.  Had  Mr. 
Surtees  received  the  telegram  that  Amaldi  had  sent  for  her 
night  before  last?  Would  he  be  there  to  meet  her?  Her 
heart  beat  to  suffocation,  as  she  leaned  over  the  taffrail 
staring  down  at  the  crowd  below.  Then  it  gave  a  sudden 
leap —  Yes — there  he  was.  His  prim,  kindly  old  face 
was  anxiously  upturned.  He  was  looking  for  her  just  as 
she  was  looking  for  him.  She  waved  to  him  .  .  .  called 
his  name.  A  few  moments  more  and  she  was  beside  him. 
She  tried  to  speak,  but  no  sound  came  from  her  white  lips. 
He  hurried  to  tell  her  what  he  knew  that  she  was  trying 
to  ask. 

"Your  son  is  with  Lady  Wychcote  at  Dynehurst,  Mrs. 
Chesney, "  he  said.  "I  saw  her  ladyship  yesterday." 

Sophy  staggered.     The  old  lawyer  offered  his  arm.     He 


573 

looked  almost  as  pale  as  she  did.  He  wanted  to  fetch  her 
a  glass  of  brandy,  but  she  would  not  have  it. 

"I  shall  be  quite  right  .  .  .  quite  right  in  a  moment," 
she  kept  gasping.  She  bent  her  head  as  she  walked  beside 
him,  struggling  with  a  desire  to  burst  into  inane  laughter. 
Hateful  throes  of  hysteria  convulsed  her  throat.  She  over 
came  them  by  a  violent  effort  of  will  that  left  her  feeling 
weaker  than  ever.  She  clung  blindly  to  Mr.  Surtees'  arm, 
stumbling  now  and  then. 

"I  reserved  a  compartment  in  the  London  train,"  he 
told  her.  "Do  you  wish  your  maid  to  go  with  us,  or  in 
the  next  compartment?" 

"Not  with  us,"  murmured  Sophy.  "I  wish  to  talk  with 
you  quite  alone." 

She  regained  her  composure  little  by  little,  and  as  soon 
as  the  train  was  under  way  turned  to  him  and  said  in  a 
firm  voice : 

"Mr.  Surtees — what  did  Lady  Wychcote  say  to'  you 
about  me? — What  reason  did  she  give  for  abducting  my 
son?" 

The  solicitor  flushed  and  his  eyes  fell  away  from  hers. 

"If  you  will  excuse  me  a  moment,  Mrs.  Chesney,"  he 
answered,  "there  is  a  paper  in  my  bag  that  I  would  like 
to  show  you.  I  ...  a  ...  have  embodied  in  writing  the 
gist  of  her  ladyship's  ...  a  ...  remarks." 

He  opened  a  small  black  bag  as  he  spoke  and  took  out  a 
legal  looking  paper.  He  half  unfolded  it,  glanced  ner 
vously  at  its  contents,  then  hesitated. 

"It  is  most  painful  to  me  to  have  to  submit  this  docu 
ment  to  you,  Mrs.  Chesney,"  he  said,  distress  in  his  voice. 
' '  I  beg  you  to  believe  that  I  have  never  had  a  more  pain 
ful  duty  to  perform. ' ' 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Surtees,"  said  Sophy.  She  changed 
colour  cruelly,  but  her  tone  was  still  firm  and  quiet.  "Let 
me  see  it,  please.  ..." 

He  gave  her  the  paper,  and  looked  away  from  her  while 
she  read  it. 

It  stated  that  the  Viscountess  Wychcote  alleged  that  her 
daughter-in-law,  the  Hon.  Mrs.  Cecil  Chesney,  widow  of 
the  late  Hon.  Cecil  Chesney,  etc.,  etc.,  was  an  improper 
person  to  have  the  care  of  the  young  peer,  her  son,  Vis 
count  Wychcote,  as  she,  Viscountess  Wychcote,  believed  that 
Mrs.  Chesney  had  committed  adultery  with  the  Marchese 


574  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

Marco  Amaldi.  Then  followed  Lady  Wychcote's  reasons 
for  so  believing,  and  for  the  first  time  Sophy  learned  that 
Colonel  Bollingham  had  seen  her  enter  Amaldi 's  lodgings 
in  Clarges  Street  the  day  after  his  supposed  accident. 

She  sat  motionless  for  some  time  after  reading  this  ac 
cusation,  then  she  spoke  to  the  solicitor: 

"Mr.  Surtees  ..."  she  said. 

He  turned  unhappily. 

"Mr.  Surtees,"  she  repeated,  looking  straight  into  his 
eyes  with  her  own  so  passionately  intent  and  still,  "I  am 
going  to  tell  you  the  whole  truth — so  help  me  God." 

She  lifted  her  right  hand  slightly  as  she  spoke,  her  eyes 
fixed  on  his.  He  bent  his  head  mechanically  as  if  acknowl 
edging  her  oath.  Then  clearly,  slowly,  pausing  now  and 
then  to  command  herself,  Sophy  told  him  the  whole  story 
of  Amaldi 's  love  for  her  and  hers  for  him.  The  old  law 
yer  sat  listening  intently.  After  the  first  few  moments  he 
forgot  his  distressing  embarrassment  in  the  deep  human 
interest  of  the  story  that  was  being  unfolded  before  him. 
As  Sophy  drew  near  the  end  and  told  of  the  bad  news  that 
Barti  had  brought  from  Switzerland,  and  of  how  the  acci 
dent  to  Amaldi 's  mother  had  made  her  so  late  in  returning 
to  Venice,  of  how  she  had  found  Lady  Wychcote  there  a 
day  before  her  intended  visit,  and  of  all  that  she 
had  endured  next  day  when  she  feared  at  first  that  some 
dreadful  accident  had  happened  to  her  son — as  she  told 
all  this  very  simply,  very  movingly  in  plain,  quiet  words, 
the  sedate  face  of  Mr.  Surtees  grew  first  discomposed  then 
rather  grim. 

Sophy  ceased.  The  whispering  roar  of  the  heavy  Eng 
lish  train  filled  the  silence  for  a  little.  Then  she  said : 

"Do  you  believe  me,  Mr.  Surtees?" 

He  answered  gravely,  even  solemnly. 

"I  do  believe  you,  Mrs.  Chesney. " 

At  this  Sophy  broke  down,  and  hiding  her  face  from 
him  cried  bitterly. 


LVI 

IT  was  most  distressing  to  Mr.  Surtees  to  see  this  tall,  dig 
nified  woman  collapse  into  such  a  bitter  abandonment  of 
weeping.  He  had  even  a  secret  affection  for  Sophy  after 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  575 

his  prim  fashion.  As  poor  Bobby  would  have  said,  it 
made  him  feel  "rather  sick"  to  sit  there  helplessly  watch 
ing  her.  He  had  an  almost  irresistible  impulse  to  put  his 
hand  on  her  shaking  shoulder  and  pat  it  gently.  Only  the 
habit  of  a  decorous  legal  lifetime  restrained  him.  He  fid 
geted  nervously  with  his  glasses  and  the  paper  that  she 
had  handed  back  to  him,  began  to  mutter  such  words  of 
consolation  as  he  could  think  of. 

"My  dear  lady  .  .  .  my  dear  lady.  .  .  .  Compose  your 
self.  .  .  .  We  shall  find  a  way  out.  ...  I  have  sugges 
tions  .  .  .  yes,  suggestions.  ..." 

Sophy  reached  out  one  hand  to  him  blindly,  her  face  still 
hidden.  He  took  it  gingerly  but  tenderly  in  both  his  own. 
Nature  overcame  decorum. 

"My  poor,  poor  child  .  .  ."he  said  shakily. 

As  a  staunch  Conservative  and  member  of  the  church 
of  England,  he  had  not  approved  of  Sophy's  divorce.  In 
theory  he  was  much  shocked  by  the  fact  that  she  should 
have  contemplated  a  third  marriage.  Yet,  as  she  herself 
told  it,  her  story  took  quite  another  aspect  in  the  old  law 
yer's  mind — seemed,  in  fact,  the  most  natural  and  inevi 
table  outcome  of  circumstances.  The  circumstances  he  still 
disapproved  of,  while  sympathising,  against  his  judgment 
and  much  to  his  own  astonishment,  with  the  romance  that 
had  resulted  from  them.  And  he  felt  highly  indignant  at 
the  course  pursued  by  Lady  Wychcote. 

When  Sophy  was  calm  again,  he  asked  leave  to  tell  her 
some  of  the  "suggestions"  to  which  he  had  referred. 

"Tell  me  first  of  all  how  to  get  my  son  again,"  she 
Urged.  "What  must  I  do  to  get  him  back  at  once,  Mr. 
Surtees  ?  I  will  not  stop  at  anything  ...  no !  not  at  any 
thing!"  Now  she  was  all  fierce  and  strong  with  maternity 
again.  Her  eyes  blazed  from  her  swollen  lids,  giving  her 
ravaged  face  a  wild,  piteous  look. 

"If  you  should  insist  upon  regaining  possession  of  your 
son  by  legal  proceedings,"  answered  Mr.  Surtees,  "you 
would  have  to  apply  to  a  Judge  at  Chambers  for  a  writ  of 
habeas  corpus,  demanding  his  production  before  the  Judge 
and  an  order  that  he  be  released  to  you  his  mother  and 
guardian.  But  if  you  will  allow  me,  I  think  I  can  suggest 
a  better  way  than  taking  this  distressing  matter  before  the 
law.  ...  I  would  suggest  ..." 

Sophy  interrupted  him  breathlessly. 


576  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

"But  that  paper  .  .  .  the  paper  you  showed  me  just 
now.  Isn  't  that  to  be  shown  in  Court — to  a  Judge  ? ' ' 

Mr.  Surtees  hastened  to  reassure  her. 

"That  is  not  a  legal  document  strictly  speaking,"  he 
said  quickly.  "It  is  merely  my  memorandum  of  the  affi 
davit  that  Lady  Wychcote  wishes  to  present — to  the  Court. 
I  have  taken  no  steps  whatever  as  yet.  I  felt  it  necessary 
to  delay  this  deplorable  matter  as  much  as  possible — cer 
tainly  until  I  had  seen  you,  Mrs.  Chesney.  Now  if  you 
will  allow  me  ...  I  really  think  that  you  will  find  my 
suggestions  of  value.  ..." 

Sophy  listened  in  silence  while  he  told  her  of  the  solu 
tion  that  had  occurred  to  him.  In  the  first  place,  that  the 
matter  should  be  kept  out  of  Court,  he  considered  vitally 
important,  for  although  the  application  would  be  heard  in 
Chambers  at  the  first  instance,  either  party  dissatisfied 
with  the  Judge's  decision  might  appeal  and  then  the  mat 
ter  would  become  public.  Now  what  he  suggested  was  that 
he  should  accompany  Mrs.  Chesney  to  Dynehurst,  and  that 
she  should  demand  a  private  interview  with  Lady  Wych 
cote  in  his  presence.  After  what  Mrs.  Chesney  had  con 
fided  to  him,  he  thought  there  could  be  no  doubt  of  a  pri 
vate  settlement  of  the  matter.  That  the  mother  of  the 
Marquis  Amaldi  would  be  willing  to  witness  in  Mrs.  Ches 
ney 's  defence  was  a  most  important  fact;  also  the  circum 
stance  of  her  having  been  accompanied  by  Miss  Pickett 
when  she  went  to  inquire  for  the  Marquis  after  his  sup 
posed  accident.  Then,  too,  the  stainlessness  of  her  reputa 
tion  in  the  past  would  undoubtedly  weigh  considerably  with 
the  Judge  in  his  estimate  of  the  case.  Altogether,  every 
thing  pointed  to  the  likelihood  of  a  decision  in  favour  of 
Mrs.  Chesney  against  her  ladyship,  should  the  matter  be 
brought  to  law.  So  that  when  Lady  Wychcote  had  been 
made  to  understand  this,  he  thought  that  she  could  scarcely 
refuse  to  deliver  up  Mrs.  Chesney 's  son  to  her. 

"You  don't  know  her,  Mr.  Surtees,"  here  broke  in 
Sophy,  white  and  hard.  "You  don't  know  to  what  lengths 
that  woman  is  capable  of  going.  ..." 

"I  am  not  entirely  ignorant  of  her  ladyship's  ...  a 
.  .  .  characteristics,"  replied  her  solicitor  somewhat  tartly 
"But  in  this  instance  I  think  that  I  could  present  the  case 
to  her  so  that  she  would  a  ...  see  its  a  ...  rationality." 

Sophy  brooded  a  moment.    Then  she  said : 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  577 

"And  if  she  would  not  listen  ...  if  she  insisted  on 
proceeding  against  me?" 

"Then,"  replied  Mr.  Surtees,  "she  would  have  to  state 
formally  in  her  affidavit  the  sources  of  her  information. 
An  affidavit  would  also  be  forthcoming  from  the  person  or 
persons  who  could  prove  the  alleged  ...  a  ...  miscon 
duct,  or  the  circumstances  from  which  the  misconduct 
could  be  proved.  If  the  Judge  believed  her  ladyship's 
story  he  would  order  your  son  to  be  handed  over  to  her. 
If  he  disbelieved  it  he  would  order  him  to  be  delivered  up 
to  you.  I  think  there  is  little  doubt  which  story  he  would 
believe,  Mrs.  Chesney.  Besides,  the  abduction  of  a  child 
is  an  utterly  illegal  and  reprehensible  act — no  matter  wrhat 
the  motive.  A  court  of  morals  would  look  at  the  motive 
of  course,  and  so  Lady  Wychcote's  abduction  of  your  son 
being  prompted  by  her  affection  for  him,  would  be  judged 
differently  from  a  like  case  in  which  base  or  sordid  motives 
were  the  cause.  But  I  do  not  think  that  her  ladyship 's  act 
would  be  regarded  by  any  Judge  as  other  tlfan  highly 
reprehensible.  This  fact,  taken  with  the  rest,  may  well 
cause  her  ladyship  to  reconsider." 

Sophy  still  brooded,  her  eyes  on  the  streaking  fields. 
The  stilted  legal  phraseology  seemed  part  of  the  grim  un- 
naturalness  of  everything.  Suddenly  she  flashed  round  on 
him. 

"Which  way  can  I  get  my  boy  the  sooner?"  she  said. 

"By  allowing  me  to  go  with  you  to  Dynehurst;  I  am 
convinced  of  it,"  he  replied  without  an  instant's  hesita 
tion.  "Days  might  elapse  if  you  took  the  other  course." 

"Very  well,"  she  said,  "I  will  go  with  you — by  the  first 
train  that  we  can  take." 

It  was  about  nine  o'clock  when  they  reached  Dynehurst 
station.  They  had  to  wait  there  half  an  hour  for  a  fly.  It 
seemed  to  Sophy  as  if  this  half-hour  of  waiting  would 
never  end.  Then  when  they  were  once  more  on  the  way 
again,  the  lean  hacks  plodded  at  a  snail's  pace  over  the 
sodden  roads.  For  the  last  twenty-four  hours  it  had  been 
raining  heavily,  now  the  air  was  moistened  by  a  Scotch 
mist.  Sophy  sat  forward  on  the  musty  seat,  her  hands 
gripped  together,  thinking  of  those  other  times  she  had 
driven  to  Dynehurst  through  the  night — first  as  a  bride — 
then  as  a  widow,  with  her  husband 's  body  following  in  that 


578  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

huge,  oblong  black  box,  that  now  lay  in  the  crypt  of  the 
little  chapel.  .  .  .  When  they  drove  past  the  chapel  a  fit  of 
shivering  seized  her.  She  set  her  teeth  to  keep  them  from 
chattering.  Now  the  cliff-like  house  loomed.  She  saw  the 
files  of  lighted  windows,  but  the  nursery  was  at  the  back, 
she  could  not  see  if  there  were  still  lights  in  his  window. 
Her  heart  began  a  sick  throbbing.  Was  he  asleep,  her 
Bobby,  her  little  son?  Or  did  he  lie  awake,  wretched,  un 
happy,  wondering  about  it  all — longing  for  her  so  that  he 
could  not  sleep?  She  wanted  to  cry  out  to  him  that  she 
was  coming.  She  could  scarcely  wait  for  the  fly  to  draw 
up  at  the  front  door.  Before  Mr.  Surtees  could  assist  her, 
she  was  out  and  up  the  steps.  She  rang  twice.  Rage  woke 
in  her  as  she  stood  waiting  for  admittance  into  the  house 
where  her  son  was  shut  from  her  as  in  a  prison.  She  trem 
bled  with  her  pent  anger  more  than  she  had  trembled  in 
passing  Cecil's  tomb.  Then  a  footman  opened  the  door. 
She  stepped  past  him  without  a  word,  and  ran  towards  the 
stairway. 

Mr.  Surtees  hurried  after  her. 

"Wait  .  .  .  wait,  Mrs.  Chesney  ...  be  advised  ...  I 
implore  you  .  .  ."he  panted. 

But  Sophy  did  not  even  hear  him.  Her  son  .  .  .  she 
was  going  to  her  son  .  .  .  that  was  all  that  she  knew  or  felt 
in  that  moment. 

She  had  not  mounted  five  steps  before  she  saw  Lady 
Wychcote  and  Bellamy  coming  down. 

She  stopped  and  threw  back  her  head  with  a  fierce  ges 
ture. 

"I've  come  for  my  son,"  she  said,  her  eyes  on  Lady 
Wychcote 's.  ' '  Where  is  my  son  ? ' ' 

Both  Lady  Wychcote  and  Bellamy  stood  staring  down 
at  her  without  a  word,  and  something  in  their  faces  made 
her  suddenly  shrivel  with  fear.  She  reached  them  in  a 
bound  or  two,  seized  Lady  Wychcote 's  arm,  holding  her 
as  in  a  vice.  Her  wild  look  went  from  one  pale  face  to  the 
other. 

"What's  the  matter?  What  have  you  done  to  him?"  she 
gasped.  "Where  is  he?" 

She  loosed  Lady  Wychcote  as  suddenly  as  she  had  seized 
her.  Now  her  frantic,  asking  fingers  grasped  Bellamy. 

"Is  he  ill?     Is  he  ...  dead?"  she  stammered. 

Then  with  the  same  violent  quickness  she  released  Bel- 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  579 

lamy  also  before  he  could  reply.  Leaping  past  them,  she 
ran  towards  the  nursery. 

Bellamy  caught  her  up. 

"Wait,  Mrs.  Chesney  .  .  .  wait  .  .  ."  he  implored  as 
the  old  solicitor  had  done.  "He's  not  in  the  nursery.  .  .  . 
He  is  in  ...  in  his  father's  room.  .  .  .  Wait  a  moment. 
.  .  .  Let  me  explain  .  .  .  for  the  boy 's  sake. ' ' 

He  had  ventured  to  take  her  arm,  and  held  her  back 
somewhat  as  he  hurried  beside  her. 

"Bobby  is  not  well  ..." 

She  stopped  short — spun  round  in  his  hold. 

"Is  he  dead ?  Is  he  dead ?  Is  he  dead ? "  she  kept  mut 
tering  like  an  automaton. 

"No  .  .  .  no.  Only  a  bad  cold  .  .  .  from  exposure.  .  .  . 
Rather  feverish.  .  .  .  You  mustn't  excite  him,  though.  .  .  . 
Mustn't  rush  in  on  him  like  this.  .  .  .  Sit  here  a  moment, 
Mrs.  Chesney.  .  .  .  Recover  yourself.  .  .  .  Let  me  ex 
plain.  ..." 

Like  an  automaton  she  sat  down  in  the  hall  chair  that 
he  pushed  forward.  He  could  see  the  beading  of  s\veat 
about  her  eyes  and  lips  as  she  looked  up  at  him. 

He  galloped  his  explanation,  bending  over  her,  speaking 
in  a  low  voice,  and  glancing  now  and  then  at  the  door  of 
Cecil's  old  bedroom  near  wrhich  they  were. 

' '  The  little  chap  got  lost  in  the  Park  last  night  .  .  .  was 
some  hours  in  a  pelting  rain  .  .  .  d'you  see?  He's  in  no 
immediate  danger  .  .  .  but  he  has  pneumonia  ...  is  fev 
erish.  We  mustn't  startle  or  excite  him — d'you  see?" 

She  sat  staring  up  at  him  out  of  a  dead  face  in  which 
the  eyes  looked  startlingly  alive.  Then  she  rose,  said  in  a 
flat,  quiet  voice : 

"Yes  .      .  I  see.    Now  take  me  to  him." 


LVII 

BELLAMY  went  ahead  and  opened  the  door  carefully  so 
as  to  make  no  sound.  She  stood  a  moment  oil  the  threshold 
looking  in.  Cecil's  bed  faced  her,  and  in  it  lay  his  son, 
propped  on  pillows  to  help  his  difficult  breathing.  His 
grey  eyes  were  wide  and  bright  and  unfocused — his  cheeks 
scarlet.  On  the  sheet  before  him  lay  some  bits  of  silver 


580  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

money  and  a  few  bank  notes.  He  fumbled  with  them  in 
cessantly,  lie  was  saying  in  a  thick,  quick  little  voice : 

"A  first-class  ticket.  ...  A  ticket  to  London.  ...  A 
first-class  ticket  to  London,  please.  ...  I  have  the  money 
.  .  .  here's  the  money.  ...  I  have  the  money.  ...  A 
ticket  to  London.  ...  A  first-class  ticket.  ...  A  ticket  to 
London.  ..." 

Sophy  clung  to  the  jamb  of  the  door.  She  could  not 
move.  Bellamy  put  his  arm  round  her.  The  nurse,  who 
had  been  sitting  by  the  bed,  rose  and  came  forward. 

Suddenly  the  boy  cried  out  piteously:  "Oh!  it's  getting 
wet  .  .  .  it's  melting  .  .  .  my  money's  melting.  ..." 

The  nurse  flew  back  to  him. 

' '  No,  dear,  no, ' '  she  reassured  him.  ' '  Here 's  your  money 
all  nice  and  dry.  Here's  your  ticket  to  London.  You're 
going  to  London.  ..." 

' '  No,  no !  .  .  .  It 's  all  melted  ...  it  won 't  buy  a  ticket 
...  I  can't  find  her.  ...  I  can't  get  to  her.  ..." 

Sophy  sank  down  by  the  bed,  and  took  the  hot  little  hand 
in  both  her  own. 

"I'm  here,  my  darling.  ...  I'm  here  ..."  she  said  in 
a  voice  of  wonderful  quiet.  "You  won't  need  to  go  to 
London  to  find  me,  dearest.  .  .  .  See.  .  .  .  I'm  here.  .  .  ." 

The  brilliant  eyes  fixed  on  her  anxiously. 
".  .  .  Mother?"  ventured  the  perplexed  voice,  faintly 
hopeful.  Then  again  that  piteous  wail  broke  from  him. 
The  little  hand  jerked  in  hers  trying  to  release  itself. 
"You're  not  my  mother  .  .  .  my  mother's  in  Venice.  .  .  . 
I'm  going  to  her.  .  .  .  Where's  my  money?  Where's  my 
money  ? ' ' 

Sophy  dropped  her  face  upon  the  bedclothes.  The  nurse 
and  doctor  stood  by  in  silence.  Bobby  fumbled  with  the 
money.  He  began  again :  "A  first-class  ticket,  please.  .  .  . 
A  ticket  to  London.  ...  A  ticket  to  London.  .  .  .  I  Ve  got 
the  money  .  .  .  here's  the  money.  ..." 

The  anguish  of  remorse  and  love  were  rending  her,  but 
outwardly  she  was  as  calm  as  the  two  professionals  who 
stood  and  pitied  her. 

She  looked  up  at  last.    She  said  to  Bellamy : 

"You  can  trust  me.  I  am  quite  controlled.  But  ..." 
She  gasped  in  spite  of  her  furious  will.  "...  don't  let 
her  come  into  this  room." 

"No,   she  shall  not.     Don't  be  afraid,"  Bellamy  said 


581 

soothingly  as  to  a  child.  "I  will  go  and  see  to  it.  Nurse 
Fleming  here  will  aid  you  in  every  way.  Bobby  likes 
her  .  .  ."he  added,  then  left  the  room. 

Now  the  boy  was  turning  his  head  from  side  to  side  on 
the  pillow. 

"It's  jolly  hot  in  here  ...  it's  too  hot  ...  it's  too 
hot  .  .  ."  he  kept  muttering.  Then  he  called  out  fret 
fully:  "I'm  thirsty!  ...  I  want  some  water!" 

Nurse  Fleming  gave  him  some  chilled  water  in  a  spoon. 
He  was  quiet  for  a  second  or  two.  Then  he  began  again 
in  that  thick,  quick  little  voice : 

"A  ticket  to  London,  please.  ...  A  ticket  to  London. 
.  .  .  I  'm  her  only  man.  .  .  .  She  said  I  was.  .  .  .  He  ain  't 
her  man  .  .  .he's  married.  ...  I'm  glad.  ...  I  don't 
want  a  new  father.  ...  I  hate  new  fathers.  .  .  .  Mother 
dear,  I'm  your  man.  .  .  .  Don't  marry  anybody.  ...  I'm 
your  man.  ..." 

Sophy  began  whispering  softly,  her  face  close  to  his : 

"No,  sweetheart.  You're  my  only,  only  man.  ...  I'm 
not  going  to  marry  anybody,  my  darling.  Bobby  .  .  . 
Bobbikins  ...  it's  mother  talking  to  you  .  .  .  mother. 
.  .  .  My  little  man  .  .  .  my  only  little  man.  ..." 

He  seemed  to  recognise  her  for  an  instant.  "Mother! 
.  .  .  Let's  begin  our  book.  .  .  .  Once  upon  a  time.  .  .  . 
No,  that's  silly.  ...  It  was  glass  .  .  .  glass  ...  a  glass 
book.  .  .  .  Put  our  names  together  .  .  .  print  them.  .  .  . 
No.  ...  I  want  a  ticket  to  London,  please.  ...  A  ticket 
to  London.  ..." 

In  the  meantime,  Mr.  Surtees  and  Bellamy  were  talking 
very  seriously  to  Lady  Wychcote.  Her  ladyship  was  badly 
frightened.  It  did  not  take  them  long  to  bring  her  to  a 
reasonable  view  of  the  question  at  issue.  If  her  grandson 
should  die,  she  could  not  but  realise  that  his  death  would 
be  laid  to  her  account  by  others,  though  her  own  angry 
thought  insisted  that  his  mother  would  be  really  the  one 
to  blame.  Then,  too,  she  loved  the  boy,  as  has  been  said, 
far  more  than  she  had  ever  loved  her  own  sons.  She 
quailed  inwardly  with  pain  when  she  thought  of  the  shriek 
of  terror  with  which  Bobby  had  greeted  her  a  little  while 
ago  when  she  had  entered  the  room  with  Bellamy.  ' '  Don 't 
let  her  get  me!  ...  Don't  let  her  take  away  my  ticket!" 
he  had  screamed.  For  with  the  strange  inconsistency  of 


582  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

delirium  he  had  recognised  his  enemy  at  once,  though  his 
mother's  presence  had  been  unable  to  soothe  him.  Lady 
Wychcote  had  been  compelled  to  withdraw,  lest  the  child 
should  go  into  convulsions  from  his  frenzied  fear  of  her. 

She  sat  subdued  though  haughty  while  Mr.  Surtees 
pressed  home  the  facts  that  he  considered  would  militate 
against  her  should  she  persist  in  her  struggle  for  the  sole 
guardianship  of  her  grandson.  Bellamy,  in  whom  she  had 
confided  when  he  was  called  to  Bobby's  bedside,  was 
strongly  of  the  solicitor's  opinion. 

They  both  agreed  in  thinking  that  Lady  "Wychcote's 
case  would  be  as  good  as  lost  before  being  presented.  Be 
sides,  after  laying  before  her  every  other  circumstance  in 
Sophy's  favour,  Mr.  Surtees  assured  her  that  the  Judge 
would  be  certain  to  demand  a  private  interview  with  the 
boy.  In  that  case  Bobby's  absolute  devotion  to  his  mother 
would  have  the  greatest  weight  with  the  Court.  And — her 
ladyship  must  pardon  him — but  after  the  events  of  the  last 
two  days,  she  could  hardly  expect  that  her  grandson  would 
reply  as  ...  a  ...  favourably  when  questioned  about 
his  feeling  for  her. 

They  expatiated  on  the  way  that  the  boy  had  come  to  be 
in  his  present  serious  condition.  The  proud  old  woman  sat 
listening  with  a  face  as  grey  as  flint  and  as  hard.  But  she 
was  suffering  as  she  had  not  suffered  before  in  all  her  im 
perious  life.  Bellamy  wound  up  by  saying:  "I  regret 
having  to  distress  you,  Lady  Wychcote;  but  the  boy's  con 
dition  is  much  more  serious  than  I  would  admit  to  his 
mother.  In  fact  he  is  very  dangerously  ill.  .  .  But  even 
if  he  recovers,  you  would  scarcely  like,  I  presume,  to  have 
your  part  in  the  matter  brought  up  in  Court." 

Lady  Wychcote  swayed  on  her  chair. 

"  'If  he  recovers'  .  .  .  "  she  repeated  thickly.  "Is  there 
danger  ...  of  ...  his  .  .  .  dying?" 

"Grave  danger,"  said  Bellamy. 

Lady  Wychcote  fainted  for  the  first  time  in  her  life. 

When  Bellamy  thought  of  how  poor  Bobby  had  come 
to  have  pneumonia,  he  did  not  wonder  that  his  grand 
mother  should  faint  on  hearing  that  he  might  die.  It  had 
happened  in  this  way : 

To  all  the  boy's  frantic  inquiries  when  he  found  that  he 
was  on  the  way  to  England  without  his  mother,  Lady 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  583 

Wychcote  had  always  answered  in  some  such  words  as 
these:  "You  must  trust  me,  my  dear.  You  will  under 
stand  some  day,  but  now  you  must  submit  to  my  judgment 
without  questioning.  It  is  best  for  you  and  for  your 
mother  that  you  should  come  with  me.  I  cannot  tell  you 
anything  more  at  present.  Be  a  good  boy.  After  a  while 
you  will  be  very  happy  I  am  sure." 

She  told  him  frankly,  however,  that  they  were  going  to 
England. 

When  he  asked  if  his  mother  knew,  if  she  would  come, 
too,  very  soon,  Lady  Wychcote  had  replied:  "She  will 
know  shortly.  I  do  not  know  what  her  plans  are. ' ' 

Then  Bobby  gave  way  to  such  rage  as  his  grandmother 
had  not  witnessed  since  his  father's  childhood.  He  was 
like  a  demon.  He  tried  to  jump  from  the  window  of  the 
carriage — fought  with  her  and  the  maid  till  their  gowns 
were  torn  and  he  was  in  a  state  of  collapse.  When  he 
recovered  from  this  he  took  refuge  in  utter  silence.  He 
would  not  eat  or  drink — would  not  move — crouched  white 
and  stony  with  closed  eyes.  When  they  reached  Boulogne 
they  had  to  get  a  man  to  carry  him.  But  now  his  eyes  were 
open.  They  looked  fierce  and  animal-like.  He  himself 
looked  like  some  savage,  trapped  little  animal  with  a  red 
mane.  As  he  caught  sight  of  the  channel  steamer  and 
realised  that  he  was  to  be  carried  aboard  of  it,  he  began 
to  fight  again.  The  man  had  difficulty  in  mastering  him 
without  hurting  him.  Lady  Wychcote  explained  that  the 
boy  was  temporarily  insane  and  that  she  was  taking  him  to 
England  for  treatment.  Bobby  shrieked :  "You  lie!  You 
lie !  You  've  stolen  me !  She 's  stolen  me  from  my  mother ! ' ' 

It  was  the  first  time  that  the  determined  old  lady  had 
ever  felt  really  afraid.  She  almost  lost  her  head  for  a 
moment;  but,  fortunately  for  her,  it  was  at  this  moment 
that  Bobby  collapsed  again,  as  he  had  done  in  the  railway 
carriage. 

All  the  way  from  Dover  to  London  he  crouched  again, 
motionless,  with  closed  eyes.  But  now  he  was  thinking — 
wildly  yet  rationally.  He  must  escape  somehow  and  get 
back  to  his  mother.  To  escape  he  must  put  his  grand 
mother  off  her  guard.  He  must  pretend  to  "be  good." 
His  pockets  were  full  of  money.  He  had  taken  from  his 
little  "bank"  that  morning  the  savings  of  two  months. 
He  had  taken  out  all  the  money  he  had,  because  he  wanted 


584  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

to  buy  his  mother  a  glass  gown  if  possible.  There  were 
in  his  pockets  some  English  shillings  and  half-crowns,  some 
silver  lire,  some  five  lire  bank  notes.  It  seemed  quite  a 
fortune  to  him — certainly  enough  to  pay  his  way  back  to 
Venice.  But  how  to  get  away  from  his  grandmother? 
The  only  thing  to  do  was  to  pretend  to  "be  good"  and 
wait  .  .  .  and  watch  his  chance.  Then,  too,  he  must  keep 
strong.  Now  he  felt  very  faint  and  sickish  from  hunger. 
He  unclosed  his  eyes,  looked  at  his  grandmother,  and  said 
slowly : 

"I've  decided  to  behave.  I'd  like  something  to  eat, 
please." 

Lady  "Wychcote  could  have  shouted  with  relief  and  joy. 
She  would  have  kissed  him,  but  he  fended  her  off. 

"Please  ...  I  feel  rather  un-affectionate, "  he  said. 
Something  in  his  voice  and  look  put  the  old  lady  at  her 
proper  distance.  She  could  not  meet  the  boy's  eyes  com 
fortably. 

She  said  with  great  meekness  for  her :  ' '  Very  well,  Rob 
ert.  But  I  am  pleased  to  see  you  act  like  a  man." 

Anna  opened  the  luncheon  hamper  and  he  ate  a  sand 
wich  and  drank  some  coffee  and  milk.  The  food  sickened 
him  suddenly.  He  could  not  eat  more  though  he  tried. 
He  then  sat  quietly  looking  out  of  window  till  they  reached 
London.  Mr.  Surtees  met  them  at  the  station.  He  looked 
very  much  surprised  when  he  saw  Bobby.  Lady  Wychcote 
made  him  a  significant  gesture,  and  he  did  not  express  the 
surprise  he  felt.  Also  he  thought  that  the  boy  looked  ill. 
Bobby  walked  around  and  slipped  his  hand  in  the  old 
solicitor's.  He  and  Mr.  Surtees  had  not  seen  each  other 
often  but  they  liked  each  other.  Bobby 's  brain  was  racing. 
"Shall  I  tell  him?  Shall  I  tell  him!"  he  was  thinking. 
Then  something  in  him  said,  "No."  That  Mr.  Surtees 
would  have  to  do  as  his  grandmother  wished  him  to — at 
least  now.  Perhaps  later  he  could  see  him  alone.  They 
went  to  Claridge's.  His  grandmother  and  Mr.  Surtees 
were  alone  together  for  a  long  time.  Bobby  was  left  up 
stairs  in  another  room  with  Anna.  She  tried  to  coax  him 
to  talk  with  her  but  he  had  relapsed  again  into  resolute 
silence.  Then  his  grandmother  came  up,  and  told  him  that 
they  were  going  to  Dynehurst  at  once,  and  that  he  should 
have  a  new  pony,  and  any  kind  of  dog  that  he  liked. 

He  said,  "Thank  you,"  civilly,  but  nothing  more.     His 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  585 

face  had  reddened  as  his  grandmother  spoke — with  pleas 
ure  she  thought.  Yes  .  .  .  ponies  and  dogs  were  a  sure 
way  to  a  boy's  heart.  She  felt  quite  complacent  and  en 
couraged.  The  boy  would  be  easier  to  manage  than  she 
had  dared  hope,  after  the  frightful  incidents  of  the 
journey. 

Bobby  had  flushed  because  when  she  said  that  they  were 
going  to  Dynehurst  that  afternoon,  the  thought  had  leaped 
to  him:  "I  can  get  out  of  the  house  to-night,  and  buy  a 
ticket  to  London  at  the  station."  Once  in  London  he 
thought  that  it  would  be  easy  to  get  back  to  Venice.  Per 
haps  Mr.  Surtees  would  be  his  friend.  Yes,  he  had  better 
trust  Mr.  Surtees.  But  again,  no — he  wras  not  sure  about 
that.  "What  he  was  sure  about  was  that  he  could  get  out 
of  the  house  that  night  and  find  his  way  to  the  station.  It 
did  not  occur  to  him  that  the  station-master  might  be  un 
willing  to  sell  him  a  ticket  to  London. 

That  same  night — the  night  that  Sophy  spent  so  miser 
ably  on  the  express  that  was  taking  her  to  him — he  man 
aged  to  dress  himself  and  find  his  way  out  of  the  huge 
house  without  rousing  any  one.  One  of  the  housemaids 
had  been  sent  to  stay  in  the  dressing-room  next  his,  but  she 
was  a  sound,  healthy  sleeper,  and  did  not  hear  the  boy's 
cautious  movements.  He  crept  downstairs  in  his  stocking- 
feet,  boots  in  hand.  His  overcoat  had  been  put  away.  He 
went  out  into  the  dark,  chill,  misty  night,  dressed  only  in 
thin  serge.  At  first  he  could  see  nothing,  then  bit  by  bit 
the  shrubbery  and  trees  revealed  themselves  ink  on  inky- 
grey.  The  crunching  of  the  gravel  helped  him  to  find  his 
way.  His  heart  thumped  sickeningly  but  high.  He  was 
free,  free !  On  his  way  back  to  his  mother.  When  he  had 
groped  some  fifty  yards  from  the  house,  he  sat  down  on 
the  ground  to  put  on  his  boots.  As  he  laced  them  he  looked 
wrathfully  back  at  the  black  mass  of  the  grim  old  house. 
Two  lighted  hall  windows  in  the  floor  above,  and  the  lighted 
glass  above  the  front  door,  gave  it  the  appearance  of  a 
huge  staring  face,  with  luminous  mouth  and  eyes.  It 
seemed  glowering  at  him  like  an  ogre.  He  scrambled  up, 
feeling  rather  queer  and  little  in  the  lap  of  the  dark, 
empty  night,  then  trudged  sturdily  on,  guided  by  the 
crunching  of  the  gravel,  as  he  strayed  to  right  or  left. 

All  at  once,  the  trees  began  to  sigh  and  creak — big  drops 
struck  his  face — at  first  spatteringly,  then  thicker  together. 


586  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

Within  half  an  hour  of  his  leaving  the  house,  a  heavy, 
wind-swept  rain  was  pelting  down ;  ten  minutes  more  and 
he  was  soaked  to  the  skin. 

Now  it  was  that  he  began  to  fear  for  his  money,  which 
was  more  than  half  in  notes.  He  clenched  his  hands 
tightly  over  as  much  of  it  as  he  could  grasp,  and  plodded 
on  determinedly.  But  the  steady  pelting  of  the  rain  be 
wildered  him.  He  wandered  from  the  driveway — tried  to 
find  it  again,  with  hands  and  feet  this  time.  Blown  twigs 
and  leaves  began  to  strike  him.  He  walked  against  a  tree 
— clung  to  it  a  moment,  panting.  Then  groped  his  way  on 
again.  But  now  he  was  hopelessly  lost  in  the  big  Park.  A 
great,  soggy  mass  of  bracken  stopped  him.  He  skirted  it- 
walked  against  more  trees.  Pie  would  not  admit  in  his 
fierce,  dogged  little  heart  that  he  was  lost.  He  kept  re 
hearsing  what  he  would  say  to  the  station-master:  "A 
first-class  ticket  to  London,  please.  Here's  the  money." 

For  nearly  three  hours  the  boy  groped  and  stumbled  in 
that  maze  of  trees  through  the  driving  rain.  For  some 
time  he  had  been  saying  earnest  little  prayers: 

"Our  Father  who  art  in  heaven  .  .  .  please  help  me  to 
get  back  to  my  mother.  Our  Father  .  .  .  please.  Our 
Father  .  .  .  please.  ..." 

When  they  found  him  he  wras  lying  unconscious  on  the 
sodden  grass  under  an  elm — both  hands  clenched  fast  upon 
as  much  of  the  notes  and  silver  in  his  pockets  as  he  could 
grasp. 

When  he  had  been  put  to  bed,  and  roused  at  last  he  was 
delirious.  He  began  calling  frantically,  "My  money!  my 
money!"  They  gave  it  to  him.  Then  had  begun  that 
monotonous  chant  of:  "A  first-class  ticket  to  London, 
please.  ...  A  ticket  to  London.  .  .  .  Here's  the  money. 
.  .  .  I've  got  the  money." 

This  was  why  Bellamy  did  not  wonder  that  Lady  Wych- 
cote  fainted  when  he  told  her  that  Bobby  might  die. 


LVIII 

AND  now  Sophy  descended  into  the  darkness  of  darkness 
where  death  and  remorse  sit  brooding  together — that  vasty 
cavern  of  uttermost  black  gloom  which  underlies  the  Valley 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  587 

of  the  Shadow.  Faith  does  not  walk  there  nor  hope.  There 
a  thousand  years  seem  not  as  a  day,  but  a  day  seems  as  a 
thousand  years. 

As  she  watched  beside  her  son,  she  felt  a  more  rending 
anguish  than  when  she  had  given  him  birth,  for  now  her 
soul  was  in  travail  of  him.  She  who  had  given  him  life 
might  now  have  given  him  death.  If  he  died  it  would  be 
she  who  had  killed  him.  "  Happiness  hunter  .  .  .  happi 
ness  hunter  ..."  her  own  phrase  rang  in  her  mind. 

And  this  was  what  her  son  had  come  to,  while  she  was 
absorbed  in  hunting  happiness.  .  .  . 

She  would  not  leave  him  now  even  long  enough  to  change 
her  clothes.  Nurse  Fleming  brought  her  some  fresh  linen 
and  a  dressing-gown  to  the  bedside,  and  put  them  on  her 
as  if  she  had  been  a  child.  She  submitted  quietly.  The 
nurse  unbound  her  hair,  brushed  and  plaited  it,  then  made 
her  take  an  easy  chair  that  she  rolled  up. 

When  Bellamy  entered  again  Sophy  roused  from  her 
tranced  watching  long  enough  to  ask  him  to  get  Anne 
Harding  if  it  were  possible.  He  went  at  once  to  do  so. 

There  was  no  night  or  day  to  Sophy  now.  The  grim, 
candle-lit  hours  went  by  monotonous  as  a  linked  chain  paid 
out  of  darkness  into  darkness  by  invisible  hands. 

Then  came  intervals  of  horror — struggles  for  breath. 
Wild  shadows  on  the  ceiling  as  nurse  and  doctor  fought 
together  with  that  other  Shadow. 

Anne  Harding  came.  Sophy  stared  at  her  blindly,  and 
said:  "I  thought  you'd  come,  Cecil  ..." 

Then  after  many  days,  each  as  a  thousand  years,  a  voice 
came  through  the  smothering  blackness  in  her  mind.  It 
said: 

"He  will  live.  .  .  .  He 's  past  the  crisis.  ..." 

The  blackness  closed  in  again. 

She  came  to  herself  on  the  bed  in  Cecil's  dressing-room. 
There  was  an  old  etching  of  Magdalene  Tower  on  the  wall 
at  the  bed 's  foot. 

She  thought :  ' '  What  a  pity  to  call  it  '  Maudlin '  instead 
of  Magdalene.  ..."  Then  everything  weltered  in  on  her 
at  once — waves,  wreckage,  as  of  a  world  after  flood.  She 
was  on  her  feet.  She  was  in  the  other  room.  Anne  Hard 
ing  and  Bellamy  had  hold  of  her.  Her  head  felt  hollow 
and  very  light.  Her  voice  sounded  light  and  piping  in 
her  own  ears. 


588  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

' '  Tell  .  .  .  tell  ..."  she  was  saying. 

Anne  Harding  put  her  finger  to  her  lips — glanced  to 
wards  a  smooth  white  bed.  There  was  a  little  round  of 
sunlight  dancing  on  it.  "Ssssh  ..."  whispered  Anne. 
"He's  asleep.  .  .  .  We  mustn't  wake  him.  You've  been 
very  ill  yourself,  but  our  little  man 's  doing  finely. ' ' 

They  helped  her  to  a  chair  beside  the  bed — Cecil's  old 
leather  arm-chair.  Anne  Harding  could  see  his  huge  form 
in  it  as  he  used  to  sit  glowering  at  her  between  the  reduced 
doses  of  morphia.  It  gave  her  an  odd  feeling  to  put  Sophy 
in  that  chair,  and  tuck  a  rug  about  her. 

They  all  three  sat  in  silence  watching  the  sleeping  child. 

Sophy  whispered  once,  with  her  avid  eyes  on  the  little, 
sunken  face: 

"Is  he  really  only  .  .  .  asleep?" 

For  answer,  Bellamy  lifted  one  of  Bobby's  hands  and 
laid  it  in  hers. 

"Pie's  so  sound  it  won't  wake  him,"  he  reassured  her, 
smiling. 

And  for  Sophy  the  warmth  of  that  little  hand  was  as  the 
warmth  of  her  own  soul's  blood. 

For  a  long,  long  time  she  sat  there  with  inner  vision 
fixed  on  the  beautiful  and  terrible  star  that  had  risen  in 
the  dark  night  of  her  soul — the  star  of  a  destiny  as  stern 
and  far  more  ancient  than  that  foretold  at  Bethlehem :  the 
star  of  primordial  and  eternally  recurrent  sacrifice  .  .  . 
of  the  crucifixion  of  the  mother  for  the  child.  And  a 
woman  if  she  be  so  lifted  up  shall  draw  all  women  to  her 
and  to  each  other — for  this  is  the  dark  yet  shining  law, 
whereby  the  individual's  loss  is  the  gain  of  the  whole  race. 

When  Bobby  at  last  opened  his  eyes  they  rested  on  his 
mother's  face.  She  hardly  dared  to  breathe,  it  was  so 
wonderful  to  see  those  grey  eyes  looking  into  hers  with 
recognition.  And  the  boy,  too,  was  afraid  to  stir  or  speak 
lest  his  mother's  face  should  vanish  or  change  into  some 
dreadful  difference  as  it  had  vanished  and  changed  in  the 
dreams  of  fever.  But  as  she  knelt,  holding  his  hand  against 
her  breast,  gazing  at  him  out  of  the  eyes  that  meant  all 
love  to  him — a  little  stiff,  wistful  smile  parted  his  lips. 

"Mother  .  .  .  dear  .  .  ."he  whispered. 

Then  Sophy  put  her  cheek  to  his.  He  felt  the  soft  glow 
of  her  sheltering  breast. 


SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES  589 

"Hold  me  fast  .  .  .  don't  leave  me  .  .  ."he  murmured. 

"Never,  my  darling  .  .  .  my  only  man  .  .  .  never, 
never  again.  ..." 

"Our  Father  ..."  stumbled  Bobby,  "...  thank  you 
.  .  .  ever  so  much.  ..." 

Then  he  drowsed  off  again. 

A  week  later  Sophy  was  sitting  beside  him  as  usual,  and 
again  he  was  sleeping.  It  was  drawing  towards  sunset.  A 
lovely  glow  filled  the  sky  and  lighted  the  yellowing  trees 
in  the  Park. 

Bobby  waked  suddenly  and,  gazing  out  of  the  window 
near  his  bed,  pleaded : 

"Mother  ...  I  do  so  want  to  smell  the  out  of  doors. 
.  .  .  Couldn  't  you  open  this  window  ? ' ' 

Sophy  called  Anne  Harding,  who  was  in  the  next  room. 

' '  Do  you  think  we  might  open  it  ? "  she  asked,  after  tell 
ing  her  what  Bobby  wanted.  "It's  so  mild  to-day — like 
St.  Martin's  summer.  .  .  .  He  wants  it  so  much.  ..." 

"Of  course  we  can,"  Anne  answered  cheerfully.  "Dr. 
Fresh  Air's  the  best  doctor  of  'em  all." 

She  raised  the  sash  and  went  back  into  the  other  room. 
Doctors  and  nurses  left  those  two  alone  together  as  much 
as  possible. 

The  mild  air,  sweet  with  fading  leaves  and  bracken, 
stole  softly  into  the  room. 

"How  jolly  ..."  breathed  the  boy.  "It's  like  fairies 
touching  me.  ..." 

He  turned  his  face  towards  his  mother. 

"Come  lie  by  me,  mother  .  .  .  like  that  night  in  Yen- 
ice,  ' '  he  said. 

Sophy  lay  down  beside  him  and  took  his  head  upon  her 
arm.  Bobby  sighed  deep  in  the  fulness  of  his  content.  ' '  I 
feel  so  jolly  safe  this  wray, "  he  murmured.  They  rested 
quietly  in  each  other's  arms,  looking  up  at  the  soft  gold 
of  the  September  sky.  As  on  that  day,  nearly  eight  years 
ago,  when  Cecil  had  been  laid  in  the  chapel  crypt,  the 
yellow  leaves  drifted  down,  gently  turning  in  the  delicate 
air.  The  fallowed  earth  gave  forth  a  fresh,  pleasant  smell. 
From  the  pasture  lands  below  came  the  lowing  of  the 
"VVychcote  herd.  Now  a  flight  of  homing  rooks  streamed 
across  the  sky. 

"Oh,  how  jolly  .  .  .  how  jolly  it  all  is,"  breathed  the 


590  SHADOWS  OF  FLAMES 

boy.  "I'm  glad  I  didn't  die.  .  .  .  "What  a  jolly  noise  the 
rooks  make,  don't  they,  mother?" 

"Yes,  darling,"  she  answered  him. 

But  what  she  heard  and  saw,  high,  high  above  their 
clamorous  winging,  was  the  ecstatic  shrilling  of  the  Venice 
swifts,  and  their  impassioned  arabesques  of  flight  like  joy 
made  visible — like  a  joy  above,  beyond — far,  far  re 
moved. 


THE   END 


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